


On the Hellenes/Alone in Athens

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unedited/unformatted, unintentionally hilarious fixit for the film, archived because of the unreasonably optimistic hope that I'll edit this at some point. In the meantime, do not read and waste your time. Seriously, don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Hellenes/Alone in Athens

I go back to my cabin, unable to stop hearing the stifled sounds that I had forced from Peter while tightening the noose around his throat. My body still feels his warmth under me as he struggled, but he had been caught completely unaware. He had been completely lost. My beautiful Peter. 

I could not lose that warmth. I cannot lose it.

 

*****

 

As he slipped into darkness and fell into stillness beneath me, my hands loosened their death-inducing grip of their own accord. I grasped his shoulders and turned him over, the sash still wound around his throat. Frantic, I slipped my fingers under the soft grey cloth and felt for a pulse. It was there, faint and pulsing unsteadily. But it was there. It was only a matter of minutes before he would regain his strength. Now was the time to finish what I had started. But looking at those closed eyes, that mouth that had yielded so completely beneath mine, all I could do was bring my face to his and touch my lips to his. I kissed him gently, breathing my life into him. He was mine, as he had been from the moment we first met at the opera. And I was his; I was under the spell of his eyes and the way his brows arched when he spoke and the way his fingers moved when he played and the way he looked at me. Most of all, it was the way he looked at me. To take his life would be to break the spell… to break myself as I had never been broken before.

“You can be a leech.”

“Tom is not a nobody.”

“You can be boring.”

“Tom is tender.”

“You give me the creeps!”

“Tom is beautiful.”

Keeping the sash wound around his throat, I took his wrists in my hands and pulled them together behind his back, binding them with the ends of the sash. I removed my belt and lashed his ankles together with it. I needed time to think. I was deathly afraid to gag his mouth in case he choked to death, but there was no other way to keep him quiet for the moment. I parted his lips with my fingers and forced a handkerchief into his mouth, and bound another one tightly around his head to keep the gag in place. My heart thumped wildly with the knowledge that Peter could have died just now… that I could have killed him just now.

“Tom… you’re crushing me…”

Please, wake up. I’m sorry. Peter. I’m so so sorry. I would die before I could hurt you.

And yet I had. Hurt him in a way that he could never have imagined me capable of. Was it already too late? Would he never wake again? I drew him into my arms and pulled him close, my body pressed against his unconscious form, his face against my chest and my chin on top of his head. My arms went around him and held him tight as I breathed in the scent of him, my tears dampening the soft thickness of his hair. I realised that my sobs were only just subsiding.

I had to finish what I had started. My hands moved up from his waist along his body until they came to rest around his throat. They tightened. I kissed his closed eyes, first one and then the other, then pressed my lips to his forehead. There had been a few Dickies in my life, but there had never been a Peter. One Peter who was worth all the Dickies and so much more… so much more than I could ever tell him.

I had to get away from him, from his heart, now beating more steadily against my chest. I could not breathe. I pressed my ear to his chest and heard it beating, and the sound reassured me like no other. I turned him carefully on his side, lifted his head gently, and slipped a pillow under it. I could not think in his presence. I stood up and picked up the score that had fallen off the bed during our struggle, and left the cabin.

 

*****

 

In my cabin, I feel as if the ship is reeling around me. The sounds of Peter choking subside as his soft, rich voice fills my ears instead.

“I was rather looking forward to rowing you around.” 

God, he could flirt. That night at the opera, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful man. When I felt those eyes on me for the first time, an indescribable warmth had coursed through my being, grasping my very core and refusing to let go.

“Interesting non sequitur.” 

His eyes, the colour of the ocean, dancing with amused frustration as he spoke of Michelangelo and Leonardo. Was that the moment that I had first realized that there could actually be something between us that was more than friendship?

“God, yes. Though in my case, it’s probably a while building.” 

What had he meant? Dared I hope that he would understand what I had done?

“Are you okay?” 

No one had ever asked me that before.

“I could come back.” 

Dear, darling, beloved Peter.

“Your key.” 

How he had smiled then, in that swift, captivating way in which his smile began, first in those eyes and then with that mouth. How I loved kissing that mouth, sharing my breath with his.

“Tom? Tom, what is it? Tell me!”

Go back. Go back now and finish it before he awakens. 

I can see myself finishing the deed, unbinding his dead limbs, and leaving him there with his score by his side, to be found by the cleaner the next morning. What would they assume to be the cause of his death? Would there be a doctor on board who would be able to discover that the life had been brutally strangled out of him? Would Meredith be called to identify his body? No. I could not let anyone see him, see what I had done to him. I would have to hide him. I would have to lose him in the sea. I would have to wait for cover of darkness, and put him in a trunk and slide it overboard.

And I would not let his beautiful music die. In Athens they would say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr Peter Smith-Kingsley.” And I would play his score, sound his dead voice to his admirers. How many did he have? How many lovers had he had? How could anyone help loving him? What had he meant when he said his past would have to be contained in a whole building? What secrets would I kill with him?

I have to go back now. I have to feel his heart next to mine again, even if it is for one last time. Even if I will be the reason that it stops beating. My heart will never stop pounding unless I am close to him again, unless I feel his calming presence. If only for one last time.

I enter his cabin and swiftly lock the door behind me. He has not moved. His back is to me. Do it. Do it now. I move to his trunk and begin emptying it. I do not want to feel his body turn cold. When I am done I’ll place him quickly in the trunk, so that the last thing I remember of him is his beloved warmth.

He moans very softly, his head moving slightly. I move around to the other side of the bed and look down at him. His eyes still shut, only half-conscious, he tries to move, to get up. I sit beside him and brush the hair off his forehead tenderly. He opens his eyes. They are glazed, unfocused. His gaze steadies as he looks at me, his forehead creasing in bewilderment. My darling Peter. He is still lost. Then I see his eyes widen as memory rushes back to him. I cannot bear to have him look at me that way. I turn away, my back to him. He tries to speak, but his voice is muffled. He is trying to say my name. I feel him trying to sit up, trying to make sense of what I have done to him.

“Peter.” I still cannot bear to look at him. Why hadn’t I blindfolded him? “Peter, please.” He has stopped moving, but I can hear him trying to breathe. The gag must be terribly uncomfortable. How could I have done that to him? But I cannot help him. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. 

I turn to him in sudden desperation. “Peter, I love you.” He does not move, his eyes on mine. I cannot read them. 

I pull my pocket knife out. The blade glints in the light, the same light that is making his hair shine so sweetly. He tries to draw back as I lean close, but there is nowhere he can go. I press the tip of the knife against a vein in his throat. His wide eyes stare at me. 

“I’m going to free your mouth. Please don’t try to scream.” He keeps looking at me. I hold the knife in place. 

He nods very gingerly. Holding the blade against his throat with one hand, I use my other hand to pull down the handkerchief around his mouth so that it hangs loosely around his neck. He allows me to remove the damp cloth from his mouth. He still looks at me, his gaze unreadable, his lips parted slightly. I relax my guard since he does not seem particularly inclined to scream, or indeed, to say anything at all. 

I help him into a sitting position and raise a glass of water to his lips. He drinks thirstily, unsteadily, and I put my hand on the back of his neck for support. I lower the glass to allow him to catch his breath, which is still ragged after his close brush with death. 

“More?” I ask. He shakes his head. 

Then, after an eternity, I hear that musical voice again. “Why?” 

He coughs a little with the effort of speaking. His throat must be so sore. The sash is still tied around it. I do not dare loosen it since I cannot unbind his hands. 

“Why?” I let out a near-hysterical giggle.

He leans back, closes his eyes. “Why me?” There is pain in his voice; the pain of utter betrayal. 

“I have… I had no choice.”

“Meredith thinks you’re Dickie.” His eyes are open again and I can see a whirlwind of understanding in them. I nod, unable to trust myself to speak. 

More silence. Then: “Why did you let me live?”

I look at him, stunned. “How can you ask me that?”

“What else can I ask you?”

“Please, Peter. I need to think.” I am pleading. 

He turns his head away, wincing as the sash tightens around his throat with the movement. I yearn to help him, to ease his pain. 

I turn him on to his side so that he is facing away from me. 

“Tom—” His words die on his lips as he sees the sharp glint of the blade, feels the cold steel against his throat again. 

I am pressed close against him from behind. “Sshh. Sshh. Don’t try to speak.” It sounds like a threat. God, how I hate myself at this moment. I cautiously slide the blade under the cloth around his throat, and he inhales sharply. He thinks it is going to be his last breath. 

“Don’t move, Peter.” I thrust the blade upwards, the sharp edge slicing easily through the cloth. The intended weapon of murder has left a deep red bruise around his throat. As the ripped ends slide away, I grab them and wind them tightly around his wrists, ensuring that his bindings do not come loose.

I help him sit up again, his back against the head board. 

He coughs slightly. “Thank you.” He looks at me and smiles slightly, ruefully. 

Oh my god. Oh my god. I dare not, I dare not hope. 

The smile is gone almost before it begins. “Peter.” I almost sob out his name. I can look anywhere but in those eyes. I put my head on his chest as silent tears pour from my eyes, wetting the front of his jersey. His heart is beating steadily now. Thank god. Oh, thank god. I clutch at his shirt with my hands and sob. He lets me cry, does not say a word, does not move. My sobs die away and we lie there quietly, my face still hidden in his chest. 

“Tom.” That voice. How it soothes me, even when it is full of apprehension and confusion.

“Tom,” he says again. I raise my head and look at him. 

“Do it, Tom. Finish it.” 

“What?” I whisper. 

“Finish what you started.” He is looking away from me. 

“Peter,” I choke. What is he asking me to do? 

He responds to the unspoken question, his eyes still turned away from my face. “Kill me, Tom.”

“Peter, no.” I am choking; my tears will not let me breathe. 

He turns his head and looks at me. “Kill me, since you cannot help me understand, or trust me to keep your secrets.” Oh, god. He thinks I don’t trust him.

“Can you ever forgive me?” I have to ask, even though I am deathly afraid of his answer.

“That’s not the question, is it?” His voice is sad, tender. “You have no choice. You have no way of knowing what I will do if you release me.”

He is right. If Peter lives, Tom Ripley is a murderer.

“Dickie and Freddie both?”

I fix my gaze on the floor. I am frozen.

“Did they hurt you?”

I nod ever so slightly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. God, Peter, no. Don’t ever think that.”

“Then tell me what I should think. Have I just become inconvenient?”

I can say nothing.

“It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re saying.” My tone is harsh. It has never been harsh with him before.

“Remember that day at the Pieta?” He smiles slightly.

I nod. There is nothing I can say.

“Did you love me then?”

“God, yes.”

“Did you trust me?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What changed?”

“Nothing. Peter is everything to Tom Ripley.”

“Is that why Tom has to kill him?”

“No. Yes. God. Oh, god. Peter.”

“You say you love me.” He is looking directly at me, his gaze penetrating mine. 

I sit next to him and frame his face with my hands. “Believe that, if you can believe nothing else I say.”

“I do believe you.” His voice is almost a whisper, our lips almost touching as I lean over him. Our eyes seem locked together. I pull him close, my hands pressing hard against his ears and cheeks, and kiss his mouth. He struggles in my arms. Dismayed, I release him and pull away. I’ve lost him.

I am expecting words revealing his disgust for what I have done, his revulsion against being touched so intimately by someone as soulless as I seem to be. To my amazement, he lets out a little laugh. “I thought you were going to pull my head off. Couldn’t support myself,” he explains, inclining his head backwards to indicate his tied hands.

Relief washes over me. I long to believe he still loves me, despite the fact that I nearly killed him and am now keeping him captive in his own cabin. “I—I’m sorry, Peter. You don’t know how much I want to release you.”

“But you dare not.” He sighs, softly. How I long to hold him close.

I glance at his feet. The belt is very tight around his ankles, and I am afraid it is cutting off his circulation. “I’m going to let you walk around for a bit, okay?”

He nods. Something inside me trusts him not to try to fight me. He is taller than I am and it will be difficult to fend him off if he tries anything, even with his hands tied.

I sit down by his feet and take them into my lap, fumbling with the belt to get it loose. It takes a while and he lies still, watching me. After his ankles are freed I remove the socks he has been wearing, and he makes a small sound as I touch his bare feet with my hands. They are cold from lack of circulation. I rub them gently with my hands, massaging his toes and ankles. He moans slightly as the feeling returns to his feet, and they get some colour back. I almost feel as if we are back to a few hours earlier, when we first entered the cabin together and fell on each other. I love the graceful arch of his feet, his perfect toes. His feet always smell good. Is there nothing about him that is imperfect?

Yes, there is. The fact that he had chosen to let me into his life. That he had not seen me for what I was.

Or had he?

“Tom?” His husky voice drifts into my thoughts. He is looking at me quizzically. I let go of his feet and pull away from him. I cannot let myself weaken now.

“Is it okay if I get up now?” he asks carefully. I nod, indescribably hurt by his wariness. He smiles swiftly and I realise he is only trying to put me at ease. 

Or is he? Am I a fool to trust him not to try and get away?

“Tom, it’s all right. I won’t go near the door, and I won’t make any sudden movements. You have my word.” My heart would have gone out to him at those words, had it not already been his.

He sits up with some difficulty and slides his legs off the bed, and stands a little unsteadily. I keep my distance, ready to go to his aid if he falls, but he seems all right. The bed is between us now as he takes a few steps forward. “May I use the bathroom?”

I am torn. “I can’t release your hands, Peter.”

“Then tie them in front of me.”

But for that, I’ll have to untie them first. Is he playing with me? What if he isn’t?

“Okay. Kneel down. On the floor.”

He obeys unquestioningly. His eyes never leave mine as he lowers himself to one knee on the floor, then the other. His inherent gracefulness comes through even in this position, his back straight and his shoulders level with each other.

“Cross your ankles.” 

Again, he does as I ask with no hesitation. I move behind him and straddle his legs, sitting on his calves to pin him down as I undo the knots on the sash that I nearly killed him with. That I can still kill him with. He stays absolutely still, and I feel my pulse begin to quicken because of his closeness. I can smell the woodsy scent of his hair, his skin.

Keeping the strap tied around his left wrist and freeing his right, I grasp both wrists and move his hands around to his front. My arms are tight around him now, holding his hands in front of him, our bodies pressed tightly together as I bind his wrists again. He keeps his head erect as I rest my chin on his shoulder to see what I am doing. I leave my arms around him for a moment longer than necessary, fighting the yearning to bury my face in his neck.

I reluctantly stand up and firmly grasp his elbow, helping him to his feet. We are standing inches apart now and he is looking down into my eyes. 

“That’s a lot better, thanks.” His eyes flicker to my mouth and for an insane moment, I think he is going to kiss me. Then he turns away and walks to the bathroom. 

“Leave the door open,” I say. He nods and goes in. I turn away to give him privacy, embarrassed now to offer him any assistance in the toilet. I keep his profile in the corner of my eye so I can tell if he makes any sudden movement.

He returns in a couple of minutes, his hands and face wet and the delightful lock of hair on his forehead damp from where he has splashed water on his face. He has to raise his tied hands together to brush his hair out of his eyes. 

“Here.” I pick up a neatly folded towel from the chair and toss it toward him, wary about getting too close. He catches it and sits down at the edge of the bed, burying his face in it.

I watch for movement but he is still except for his breathing, which still seems a little difficult. 

Then, without warning, there is a knock at the door.

2.

Peter looks up, our eyes meeting. We are both frozen. 

Another knock. The sound jolts me into automatic pilot, and I get up and throw myself at him, clamping my hand over his mouth and pinning him down. I look down into his eyes as he lies still beneath me. They are calm, reassuring. 

More knocks, sounding urgent now. “Peter?” A female voice calls. 

Meredith. Damn her, damn her. 

My head reeling, I bury my face in Peter’s neck for a moment, my hand still tight over his mouth. He makes a slight sound, trying to move his head. 

I raise my head and look at him in desperation. “Help me,” I plead. He nods.

I let go of his mouth. My life is in his hands now. “Please,” I whisper. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, very softly. “Untie my hands.” 

I start to reach for his hands, but freeze. What am I doing? How can I trust him? How can I trust anyone? I made a promise to myself, long ago, that I would never do that again.

“Peter, are you in there?” Meredith will not give up.

I get off Peter and stand helplessly, looking at the door. He can call for help now. It is over. 

No, it’s not. I still have the knife. I can slit his throat before he can -- No. No. If I harm him, I cannot live with myself. 

I feel Peter behind me and turn to him. 

“My hands, Tom,” he whispers urgently. I obey him automatically, undoing the knots and freeing him completely. He pulls his sleeves down so that the red marks around his wrists are hidden, and inclines his head towards the bathroom. 

I slip inside the bathroom and swing the door shut, keeping it open a crack so I can watch him. 

“She thinks we… She thinks you and Dickie haven’t met in months,” I whisper. 

Peter nods and turns away, the expression on his face impenetrable. I have always been able to tell what he was thinking from his utterly open face, but now, at this crucial moment, I cannot tell what he is thinking, if he will betray me. As I have already betrayed him.

He walks to the door and opens it. I am dying inside. Surely he will not come back inside if he leaves the room. I am powerless to stop him.

“Meredith.” His charming voice is full of surprised pleasure.

“Peter! I thought I saw you earlier on. I’ve been knocking for ages.”

“I’m so sorry. I was in the washroom. Won’t you come in?”

“Of course.” She steps in and removes her coat. Always the gentleman, Peter takes it from her and hangs it carefully over the back of a chair. He offers her a cigarette and she perches on the edge of the only chair in the cabin.

“Are you with Dickie Greenleaf, by any chance? I just saw him up on deck.” The crafty bitch. She's checking if I’d been telling her the truth.

“Dickie Greenleaf?” His rich voice reveals nothing but surprise. “Why, no. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Peter.” She sighs. “You’re not a very good liar, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Peter. I know of Dickie’s… liaisons… with men. And I know that you… well, you don’t exactly make a secret of it. It doesn’t take much to put those two facts together and… well, you know.”

Peter laughs his remarkable, endearing laugh. “Well, Meredith… I can’t deny you’re right, in a sense. I certainly thought at one point that Dickie was rather charming. But I can assure you, he never reciprocated my feelings. I gave up on him a rather long time ago.”

“Really?” There is relief in her voice. “You had no idea he was on board?”

“None whatsoever,” he says firmly. “I’ve been in here most of the time, working on my score. I’m giving a concert in Athens.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’d love to hear you.”

“Why don’t I buy you a drink and tell you all about it.” He is guiding her gently to her feet now, helping her with her coat, fetching his own. Without a glance in my direction, he steers her out of the cabin and they are gone.

I have never been in such a quandary. Surely he is telling her the truth now, and they are on their way to the captain. 

No, don’t think such thoughts. Peter wouldn’t betray you. What are you thinking, you idiot? Peter owes you nothing. You tried to kill him, for god’s sake.

I stumble out of the bathroom, my head swimming. Can I possibly get away? Am I caught like a rat in a trap? Has he locked the door from the outside? 

Before I can get my thoughts together, the door opens and Peter comes in. He shuts the door behind him and turns to me quickly. I am frozen, lost. 

His eyes flash with concern as he comes to me and pulls me roughly into his arms. I struggle wildly, but he holds me tight, pinning me against the wall. “Listen to me. Tom. Listen. I won’t betray you. I won’t.” His mouth is close to my ear as he holds me like a vice. 

He pulls his head back and looks into my eyes. I am limp in his arms. “Do you trust me? Do you believe me?” His earnest eyes gaze at me in that way that makes me melt, and I struggle to keep my guard up.

“I -- I don’t know what to believe.”

“I know. I don’t have too much time. Meredith’s waiting. I told her I forgot my wallet. I must go. Wait here for me. Okay?”

I say nothing, torn. He came back to reassure me. He must be telling the truth.

He takes my face in his hands. “Okay?” he says gently. 

I nod. He presses his lips against my forehead for a long moment. “I’ll be back soon.” He gives me a final squeeze, smiles quickly, and leaves.

As the door closes behind him I sit down on the bed, shaking. I have never felt so frightened in my life. He knows. He knows, and he will tell everyone. All this -- this charade -- is to lull me into a false sense of security. He is making me wait for my own damnation. I cannot trust him precisely because he is such a good person. That blemishless heart can never condone what I have done. Peter. The mere thought of his name reduces me to helpless tears, and I let out a frustrated sob.

I cannot wait here to be caught and dragged away by the authorities. I try to open the door and, to my intense relief, he hasn’t locked it behind him. Surely he would have, had he meant to give me away? No. I cannot give him the benefit of the doubt.

I enter my own cabin, knowing I cannot stay there long. But where else can I go? I think wildly of getting away on a lifeboat. Surely there must be a way. Any way. Even if it means jumping off the ship with a life jacket. No. That would be suicide. I’d never survive. And yet, what have I got left to live for now? Without the safety of no one knowing what I have done. Without him.

His score is on my bed, where I had left it when I had returned to my cabin after binding him and leaving him unconscious. I clutch it to me like a lifeline and curl up on my side. I don’t know how long I lie there, my head empty of thought, my heart numb. Is it only minutes before I hear the knocking? Like before, the sound makes me react automatically. I push the file under my pillow and go to the door.

It is Peter. He seems relieved to see me. “Tom,” he says in a low voice. “I was alarmed to find you gone.”

I grab his arm and pull him in, locking the door. “What did you say to her? What did you tell them about me?”

“Nothing. Tom, you have my word. I said nothing about Dickie. Or you.”

“Why?” I burst out. “Why didn’t you? Do you not understand what I am?”

“No.” His voice is very soft. “Perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I just want to hear it from you.”

“Peter, don’t you get it? I tried to kill you. What are you made of, for god’s sake?” I grab his shoulders, shaking him. 

“Tom--” he tries to calm me. I am in no mood to listen. Drawing my arm back, I make a fist and hit him hard on the jaw. He reels back, stumbles, falls to the floor. I grab his shirt, pull him to his feet, and hit him again. He falls again. He is not even making an attempt to protect himself. I move towards him again, but this time it is he who takes me unawares. His leg sweeps out and strikes me behind my knees, and I fall on my face.

Before I can move he is on top of me, wresting my arms behind my back, holding my wrists together. 

“Let me go!” I am sobbing with fury. I have never felt such a rage of incomprehension. What is he doing? Why hasn’t he given me away? 

“Let me go!” I demand again, struggling desperately. He has me pinned down securely. 

“Not until you calm down, Tom.”

“You think holding me down is going to calm me?” I am almost shouting now, writhing below him.

“Why, yes. I rather think it will.” His voice is full of amused tolerance. I am completely thrown by his words. Still holding my wrists crossed behind my back, he leans over me and kisses my temple. 

“Calm down. That’s an order.” He begins kissing the side of my face, my ear, my throat. Dazed, I succumb to his attentions, relaxing in his arms. 

He gets off me and lies next to me, his face inches from mine. I lie still for a few moments, trying to catch my breath. He smiles reassuringly. “My sweet Tom,” he says gently, touching my cheek with his warm fingers. “My sweet, tormented Tom.” He looks sad now. 

“Peter,” I whisper. “Why? Why didn’t you give me away?”

“How can you ask me that?” he whispers back.

“What else can I ask you?”

“I love you, Tom. More than anything else. More than my life, at this point. I could no more give you away than burn my score with my own hands.”

I move closer to him and he wraps his arms around me, holding me close against him as if he will never let me go. I nuzzle my face into his neck, my mind whirling. I lick his throat, kissing his warm softness, moving up his face until my mouth finds his. We kiss urgently, desperately, as if it is our last kiss.

 

*****

 

When I wake up, it is to find the sun streaming in through the porthole above my bed. I am alone, naked but warm, covered snugly by the blankets. My sleep-induced relaxation is comforting, and for several moments I can think of nothing, do nothing but savour the feel of Peter’s touch, of falling asleep in his arms.

There is a swift knock and Peter enters, carrying a cup of coffee. He is already dressed, wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, his face radiant with freshness and warmth. He sits next to me and hands me the cup. I wrap my fingers over his and hold the cup between us as he leans over for a quick kiss. He pulls back and smiles, and I feel the last bit of tension in my mind melt away. I cannot stop gazing at him. 

He blushes slightly. “Drink your coffee,” he orders gently. I smile at him and take a sip. It tastes wonderful. Everything feels wonderful.

“Tom, last night--” He stops, as if unsure what to say next. 

I am about to say something teasing, but I notice that there is concern on his face. “What is it? Peter?”

“Well, we didn’t really get the chance to talk.” He looks directly at me now, his gaze steady.

“We can talk now.”

“We need to get our stories straight. I’m not sure Meredith was completely convinced by what I said.”

“I know. I know you’re worried.” I’m not. For the first time in my life, I am secure in the knowledge that I have the love and trust of someone else. The basement is filled with light, with his radiance. Nothing can take that away from me, from us. 

I run my fingers from his hand up his arm, circling his earlobe and causing him to moan and lean into my touch. I smile delightedly, amazed at the way this unbelievably beautiful man responds to me. 

“Stop that,” he says softly, but he is smiling too, and he doesn’t move away from my exploring fingers. I trace the strong line of his jaw and move down to his neck. My fingertips catch on the cloth of his sweater and I notice the deep red bruise underneath. 

“Your neck… oh, god, Peter. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t ever apologize to me.”

“But I--”

“I know you need to say you’re sorry, you need to ask for my forgiveness.” He gets up and walks away from the bed, his back to me. “I can’t, Tom. I can’t talk about that right now. Do you understand?” He turns to me. 

I nod, silent. There is nothing I can say or do that will undo what I did to him.

“About Meredith,” he continues. “We’ll have to stay apart for the rest of the voyage, and for a while in Athens.”

“She thinks that I -- I’m interested in her.”

Peter sighs. “I know. You’ll have to--” He stops suddenly, as if something has just struck him. “Are you? Interested in her?”

“God, no. Peter, no. The only person I’ll ever want is you.”

His face lights up at that, and relief and love rush through me as I see him smile again. “I had to ask,” he says, a little teasing, a little sheepish. I throw a pillow at him and he catches it, laughing. I laugh with him, part of me detached from the moment, unable to believe how fortunate I have been in him.

Something strikes me suddenly. “Peter? Was it true what you told Meredith about you and Dickie?”

“It’s true that I last met him several months ago.” Am I imagining it, or is his expression suddenly guarded?

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

“It does to me.” Without warning, images of Peter and Dickie together rush into my head. Both so different, both so beautiful. 

And suddenly everything seems about them; it’s Peter whose back Dickie is clinging to, Peter whom Dickie is at the jazz club with, Peter whom Dickie is playing chess in the bath with. And I am the outsider again, looking in on them both. Even as I alienate myself in my own fantasy, I realize it’s Peter I’m gazing at. It’s always been Peter, even before I met him, even before Dickie captured my imagination.

I realise that Peter has not responded. He is gazing out of the porthole, the sunlight catching his dark hair, lost in thought. Are we both thinking about Dickie?

“Peter?” He starts at the sound of my voice, and glances at his watch. “I should go. The other passengers will start stirring soon, and it will never do for me to be seen leaving your cabin at this hour.”

“Peter, wait. Please.” I cannot let him go without being certain that he will be back. “When will I see you again?”

He turns to me, those astoundingly green eyes unreadable again. I hold my breath. “Let’s bump into each other at breakfast, shall we?” He smiles briefly, and is gone before I can tell him that that sounds perfect.

I lie back in bed and close my eyes, savouring the feeling of his having been there. The images of Peter and Dickie together begin again in my head like a reel of film that gets increasingly complex and forceful. What was it he had said to the Logue woman? I always thought Dickie was rather charming. He hasn’t called me charming, ever. My face flushes hotly and I throw off the covers and get out of bed.

 

*****

 

At breakfast, I wait several minutes before I catch sight of him again. Meredith Logue is on his arm, laughing gaily at something he is saying. They pass by me without a glance, but then Meredith turns and notices me. 

“Dickie!” she laughs. “May we join you?”

“Of course.” I rise and kiss her cheek, nodding politely at Peter. He nods back formally with barely a hint of a smile, and pulls out a chair for Meredith before sitting down himself. The conversation we get into is exactly the kind I hate, and exactly the kind that Meredith thrives on; small talk about other people’s dirty linen. I can tell Peter is somewhat uncomfortable as well, since he keeps trying to steer the conversation away from gossip. I am also getting a little concerned about Peter, since I notice that he seems to be having difficulty swallowing. It’s my fault that his throat is badly bruised, and there is nothing I can do that will erase what I have done.

We have finished with the food and are having coffee when a steward comes up to Peter and says something to him in a low voice. Peter pushes his chair back and stands. “Will you excuse me a moment? I believe there’s a message for me in the wireless room.” He leaves with the steward, and I helplessly watch him go. He has barely said a word to me at breakfast. Is it only for Meredith’s benefit, or is he really unable to forgive what I have done to him?

The moment Peter leaves the dining room, Meredith turns to me and squeezes my arm. “He’s really something, isn’t he? But don’t worry, I’m not interested in him.” She laughs prettily, and I grit my teeth. “He’s, you know,” she whispers conspiratorially.

The last thing I want to do is discuss Peter with this woman. “So, Meredith, where will you be staying at Athens? We should meet there as well.”

“Of course. Darling Peter, he’s invited me to stay over at an apartment he’s renting. It’ll be such a relief to get away from the aunts and uncles!”

“That’s nice.” It takes every ounce of my reserve not to reveal that her words have practically knocked the breath out of me. The plan had been for Peter and me to stay together at that apartment… surely that wasn’t off the agenda?

“I was actually a little hesitant to accept, at first,” she goes on, oblivious to my despair. “You know, I dropped my purse earlier on the deck and when he bent to pick it up for me, I saw that there was some kind of bruise around his neck. It’s difficult to imagine him fighting, but with all these murders, one wonders…” She lets her voice trail off suggestively.

“Wonders what?” I say automatically. Does she suspect something?

“Well, you know. If he’s the one,” she whispers dramatically.

“Peter? A murderer?” The idea is so ludicrous that I cannot help laughing out loud.

She frowns. “I thought you didn’t know each other well.”

I hasten to repair the damage. “Well, he comes across as a harmless sort of guy. And besides, if he were the murderer, why would he be the one with the bruise?”

“There would have been a struggle, silly. Anyway, I’m just being inventive. Poor old Peter probably wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You’re probably right.” I am barely listening as she starts being ‘inventive’ about others she knows, my mind on Peter. He’s been gone a pretty long time. I keep my eyes on the door and am immensely relieved when I see him enter. He is with someone else, a man with longish blond hair. As they approach the table, I feel the blood begin to drain from my face.

It is Dickie.

“Meredith,” Peter smiles. “I’d like you to meet Tom Ripley.”

3.

I enter my cabin and close the door behind me, my heart pounding painfully. I know what I have just seen, and yet my mind refuses to believe it. More than the shock of seeing Dickie and processing the endless questions that keep springing up in my head, it is the shock of Peter’s betrayal that is tormenting me the most. How long had he known that Dickie was alive?

My mind races back to that day on the boat a few months ago. I had been so sure that I had killed Dickie that I had not even considered that he may have been alive when I had rolled him overboard before turning the boat around with shaking hands and heading back to the shore. He looks well today, with no hint of what happened to him except for a faint scar on the side of his head. His hair has grown and the look suits him.

What am I thinking? What are Peter and Dickie playing at? They obviously do not plan to hand me over to the authorities just yet, or they would have done so already. I sit on my bed, my head clutched in my hands. By far the worst thing about this situation is the certainty that I have lost Peter forever. It strikes me that he could not have possibly had enough time to run into Dickie and concoct the plan when he left us at breakfast, which meant that when he had brought me coffee in the morning, he had already known. I shiver in misery at the realization that he may already have known about Dickie the previous night, which meant that everything we had shared, everything he had said, had been a lie. I know the facts, but my heart refuses to believe them. You’re not a nobody. That’s the last thing you are. Peter… so honest, so tender, so trustworthy. I cannot think ill of him, even now, when I know for a fact that he is not on my side… that perhaps he never had been.

How far back did it go? Had Dickie already contacted Peter before I met him in Venice, that day when he had acted as translator during my interrogation? Oh god. Oh god. That day at the cathedral, that beautiful, eternal moment between us… the day I had told him about my fears, the demons in my basement… had he already known? Had all that meant nothing to him? Dickie had probably conspired with him from the very start, and Peter had played me… God, he had played me so well.

No. No, don’t think that way. Peter could not have done that. He doesn’t have it in him to do that to me. To anyone.

Ah, but what about a murderer? Peter must have seen Dickie’s wounds, must have heard about Freddie and put two and two together. He would not have hesitated from participating in a plan that would help bring a murderer to justice.

I fill my bathtub with steaming hot water and plunge into it. It’s almost unbearably hot, but it helps bring my numbed senses to life a little. I hug my knees and rock back and forth in the water, trying to calm myself down. I force myself to replay the dialogue at breakfast with Meredith, Peter and ‘Tom’. Since Dickie is now masquerading as me, he must have been planning this for a while. I understand where Dickie is coming from. I have wronged him, and he wants revenge. I can deal with raw instinct; I can understand it all too well.

It is Peter who remains a mystery. Even if he wants to see me brought to justice, why is he playing along with Dickie’s plan? What is in it for him? I remember how uncomfortable he was this morning when I asked about him and Dickie. It is all too clear now why he did not want to talk about Dickie. Lying would not have come easily to him, and he had almost certainly been hiding the truth from me when he left my cabin this morning.

I struggle from being overwhelmed with grief at Peter’s betrayal. I expect Dickie to be vicious and Meredith to be unmindful to everyone but herself, but Peter… How hard I had tried to trust him, to make up for the unforgivable crime I had almost committed. I had been prepared to spend the rest of my life trying to atone for treating him so brutally, but now it seemed as if he had deserved it, and more…

No. If there is one person in this world who deserves to be treated well, it is Peter. He deserves nothing but love, and respect. It is I who deserve betrayal, not him. Never him, never Peter.

You fool. I grip my hair with my hands as I try to come to terms with what has happened. The thought of his face, his hands, his music, is still inspiring nothing but helpless love in me. Oh god. I’m such a fool. All this while, all this while… Last night… Oh, god.

All is not lost yet. I must steel myself and finish what I started with both Dickie and Peter. The fools think they’re being so clever, tightening a net around me with their slick little plan. They’re both going to get what’s coming to them. The thought of battering the life out of Dickie is immensely pleasurable now. And this time, I’m going to make bloody damn sure he doesn’t get up again. Peter is a different story altogether. I am tormented enough by the thought that I almost killed him once, but to actually go through with it will be… I block the thought from my mind. I’ll have to come back to it at some point, though. But I’ll deal with that rat Dickie first.

I dry myself off and dress carefully and slowly, feeling my cold determination grow with every passing moment. One thing at a time, I tell my reflection in the mirror. Deal with Dickie first, and then… I go to the bed and slide my hand under the pillow. The score is gone. Peter must have taken it while I was sleeping. I smile bitterly. He had obviously had no intention of returning to my cabin again, of being intimate with me again. No matter. It will only make it easier for me to strangle the life my recalcitrant love for him.

I stroll out on deck, hands in my coat pockets, whistling softly. I feel like myself again, the craftsman with a plan. I spot Dickie and Meredith at the railing of the upper deck, in the same spot where Peter and I had linked arms and laughed together. Ask me what I want to change about this moment. What do you want to change about this moment? Nothing.

Meredith spots me and waves. I wave back enthusiastically and walk over to them, slipping an arm around her waist, giving her a lingering kiss on the cheek. She giggles. “Isn’t he impossible?” she asks Dickie. He looks at me, a faint smile playing around his mouth. “Hello again, Dickie. Isn’t it funny how we all managed to be on the Hellenes together? If only Marge were here, our little circle would be complete.”

“Don’t forget Silvana,” I remind him coldly, forgetting that I am the one who is supposedly responsible for her death, considering that I am playing Dickie. But the remark is enough to make him flush and look away. Meredith does not miss a beat, and looks closely at him. “Who’s Silvana, Tom?”

“Oh, just one of his sometime girlfriends. She committed suicide, you know,” I tell Meredith lazily, running a finger down her cheek. “Oh!” She looks at Dickie, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t know.”

“It was a while ago,” Dickie says shortly. “Would you excuse me, Meredith? Peter and I have some catching up to do.” He shoots me a victorious glance. It’s now his turn to make me squirm. My heart sinks as I realize that Peter has probably told him everything that happened between us. “Ah, there he is,” Dickie continues, looking over my shoulder. I glance back quickly to see Peter heading towards us.

“I should go too,” Meredith sighs. “My aunt’s probably looking for me by now.” She gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Will I see you at dinner, Dickie?” “Of course, darling,” I say smoothly, and kiss her full on the lips. The display is, of course, intended solely for Peter’s benefit, and I am gratified to see him avert his eyes as he approaches us. Meredith whirls away, a little breathless, her eyes shining.

“So good of you to join us, Pete,” Dickie grins. “Tom’s been rather clever, don’t you think?” Peter doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at me. He is still dressed in the black sweater and jeans he’d been wearing this morning, but there are lines on his handsome face, and he seems tired. Dickie slaps him on the back. “Cheer up, you stiff Brit! It’s all downhill for our Mr Ripley from now on.” He winks at me, and I clench my hands into fists. The insufferable bastard.

“Dickie,” Peter says in a low voice, “I think we should --”

“Go back to your cabin and discuss this very interesting situation privately?” Dickie cuts in. “An excellent suggestion. Do join us, Tom.” He takes Peter’s elbow and begins steering him away. I follow helplessly, knowing I have no choice.

Once we are in Peter’s cabin and the door is shut behind us, Dickie turns to me, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “What’s the matter, Ripley? Cat got your tongue?”

“What are you playing at?” I ask through gritted teeth. Dickie laughs and pours himself a drink from a bottle on the dresser. It hadn’t been there earlier. My two tormentors have obviously been in here making plans, drinking together.

“What am I playing at?” Dickie laughs again, taking a long swig from his drink. “Or do you mean what are we playing at?” He moves close to Peter, buries his nose in Peter’s silky hair, and inhales deeply. “Peter and I, that is. Hmmm? Is that what you mean?” He slips a hand under Peter’s sweater and caresses his chest.

I feel cold fury course through me at the sight of Peter being touched so intimately by another man, but there is nothing I can do but look on helplessly. “He’s magnificent, isn’t he?” Dickie continues, his fingers still wandering beneath Peter’s sweater. I look desperately at my former lover, looking for a sign, any sign, that he is finding this as repulsive as I am, but Peter is looking straight ahead, his green eyes empty, his expression revealing nothing, neither pleasure nor disgust. “Did you think he was yours, Ripley?” Dickie laughs nastily, and I almost lose my head as he flicks his tongue out lazily and licks the side of Peter’s face. My face burns as I realize that they have been intimate, and I finally understand. Peter is playing along with Dickie because he loves him. Hot tears prickle behind my eyelids and I blink them away furiously. They are playing me, and I cannot allow them to get away with it.

“Him?” I say coldly. “Hardly. He’s all yours, Greenleaf. I was amused by him, but as far as I’m concerned, Meredith is a far better catch. You two make a fine pair, by the way.” I am careful not to look at Peter as I say the words, the most difficult lies I have had to say in a long, long time. No matter what his expression reveals, even if it reveals nothing, I would rather die at that moment than look at him. I turn away from them and pour myself a drink, trying to keep my hands steady. My mind is screaming at me to do something, anything, to make Dickie get his slimy hands off Peter. How is Peter allowing this? The thought of him and Dickie together is ludicrous. I cannot believe it, despite the evidence of my eyes.

“Nice try, Ripley.” Dickie laughs again. My back still to them, I look up into the mirror and see that Dickie now has his chin propped on Peter’s shoulder as he presses against him from behind, his arm tight around Peter’s waist. Dickie goes on gleefully, “I know it’s tearing you up inside, seeing us together. Which one of us did you want more, you little faggot?” I want to kill him and I will happily do so at that very moment, if only so I never have to hear that cackling laugh again.

I take a swig of my drink to steady myself before I turn around. “Him,” I say calmly. “You could never be a fraction of the man he is, even if you lived a hundred lives.” They are both thrown by my honest response. Peter looks at me, startled, and Dickie chuckles. “Well, well. A candid admission at last from the manipulative Mr Ripley.” He stares at me, his eyes hardening. “The lying, scheming, deceitful, murderous Mr Ripley.”

“Shut up, Dickie,” I say quietly. His humiliating words on the boat come back to me, and I wish desperately that I had killed him then. I am furious with myself, furious with Dickie, but most of all with Peter. If he had not been able to forgive me out of a sense of integrity or betrayal, I would have understood that. But to manipulate me like this, while he basked in the attentions of a lecherous, conniving brute like Dickie…

“That’s enough. Both of you,” Peter says sharply, the first words he has said since we entered the cabin. He pulls away from Dickie’s arms, and I feel oddly relieved. “Dickie, this charade has gone on long enough. I think we should put an end to it.”

“Hand Mr Ripley over to the authorities, you mean?” Dickie grins. “But I don’t want to do that just yet. I want to torment him some more.” Peter sits down at the edge of the bed, and says nothing. His hands are clasped tightly in front of him.

Dickie drains the last of his drink and sets the glass down on the dresser. “I’m going to catch some sunshine before lunch,” he says cheerfully, as if we were on holiday and there was nothing more natural than what he was suggesting. “Cheerio!” With a last guffaw, he is gone.

And now it is just Peter and me and I can say nothing, although I feel the silence will smother me. I sit on the chair opposite the bed so we are facing each other, but I cannot even look at his face. I focus on his hands instead, absently studying the contours of his fingers, willing myself to calm down by thinking of the way his fingers look when they play the piano. I instinctively long to cover his hands with mine, and clench my fingers tightly, trying to remind myself that it is over, that he is with my enemy, that he is my enemy. But it’s very, very difficult to convince myself of that when he is so close, and when the memories of our time together are still so fresh in my mind.

“When did it happen?” I finally ask, my voice hoarse, my dry throat barely allowing me to speak. Peter says nothing for several moments. “This morning,” he says finally, still looking at his hands. “While I was asleep?” I ask bitterly. He looks up at that. “No. Tom, no. It was afterwards. When I went back to my cabin after we agreed to meet at breakfast. He was waiting for me at my cabin.”

My heart leaps at that. Peter had not lied to me that morning, then. Everything that had happened between us had been real. Until he found out that Dickie was alive, I think bitterly. Or perhaps he’s lying to me now.

“So it was true, then. About you and Dickie.” I can hardly believe that with the enormity of everything that has happened, I am only obsessing about Peter and Dickie being together.

“It’s not what you think.” Peter’s voice is sharp again. I laugh, almost hysterically. “You let him grope you like that, and it’s not what it looks like?” Peter closes his eyes briefly, as if the memory is painful. I am confused, but I cannot ignore what I have seen. “What is it, then? Tell me,” I demand. Peter shakes his head. “It’s complicated, Tom.”

I laugh humourlessly. “What’s complicated about it? You let him fuck you, you’re on his side.”

“Don’t be crass,” Peter says softly, not meeting my eyes. I explode. “I’m crass? You’re the one who lets his filthy hands roam all over you, and you call me crass?” I want to hit him now, bring him to his senses, but I cannot touch him, even to vent my fury at him.

“You don’t understand, Tom.” Peter runs his hands tiredly over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“Then help me understand,” I say desperately, searching his face for any sign, any clue that will tell me what he is thinking. “Help me understand how I lost you to him.” I almost choke out the words, knowing I am wearing my heart on my sleeve now, but unable to bring myself to be anything but completely honest with him.

“Tom, please.” His eyes meet mine, and they are shining with tears. Despite my grief, I feel a familiar warmth just hearing him speak my name. I am unable to hold my own tears now, unable to stop a trickle from escaping down my cheek. Peter reaches out and gently wipes it away, and his touch feels electric to me. I cover his hand with mine and hold it against my face, trying to look at him as my vision gets increasingly blurred by my tears. Peter stands up and wraps his arms around me. Helpless, completely lost, I bury my face in the front of his sweater and sob, clinging to him. He strokes my hair and holds me as I cry. The scent of him fills my nostrils and I feel that my senses will drown in his closeness, the heady fragrance of his body enveloping me and making me forget everything but how much he means to me. My arms slip around his waist as we hold each other, my fingers sliding under his sweater, instinctively caressing his back. As I absently rub his skin, I feel my fingers slide over a small, rough spot, and he inhales sharply, as if in pain.

I pull away from him, concerned. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s okay. It’s nothing.” He moves away from me before I can take a look. “Peter, what’s wrong? Let me see.”

“No, Tom, don’t.” He tries to stop me but I push him down on the bed and yank his sweater up. What I see makes me gasp with shock. The small of his back is covered with tiny cigarette burns.

“He did this to you!” I cry. “Tom,” Peter begins, then stops. My brain is whirling. Dickie has tortured Peter. He has dared to hurt Peter, my Peter. “Don’t move,” I say quickly, and go to the bathroom. When I return with a bottle of salve he is lying still on the bed. My heart aches as I realize he was in the same position on this very bed when I tried to strangle him. Was that just last night? An eternity seems to have passed since then.

I dip my fingers into the cool ointment and dab it gently on to the burns, keeping my touch as light as possible to prevent hurting him further. After I am done I gently peel off his sweater, so that the salve does not stain the cloth. I put the bottle away and wipe my hands, shaking with rage at the injustice of Peter being hurt, at my own helplessness at having been unable to prevent it.

I lie down next to Peter and he turns on to his side so that he is facing me. “Thank you,” he says quietly. We are both dry-eyed now, and I am intent on understanding this bizarre situation that we are in. “Tell me what happened,” I say gently. So he does.

4  
I lie beside Peter as he recounts to me what happened that morning after he left my cabin. Being close to him has helped my rage against Dickie to subside a little, although I know I will not rest until I have punished him adequately for what he has done to Peter. I caress Peter gently as he speaks, his clear, soft voice soothing my ruffled senses.

 

"I was unlocking the door to my cabin when he came up behind me. I felt something cold against my side and realized that he was pressing a pistol against me. 'Don't make a sound,' he whispered. 'Just open the door.' 

 

"With the cold steel against my ribs, I had little choice in the matter. I couldn’t see his face, and thought I was being robbed or something. Once inside, he let me turn around. Imagine my surprise when I saw Dickie Greenleaf standing there as large as life, with a pistol pointed at my chest.

 

"Seeing him threw me completely. He had obviously prepared well for the situation, and kept the gun pointed at me as he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He forced me to lie on the bed and handcuff myself to the headboard. Once I was secured, he relaxed his guard a little, putting down the gun and pouring himself a drink. 

 

"'Dickie, what's going on?' I asked. 'I thought you were dead.'

 

"'Did Ripley tell you that?' he laughed. He said he'd seen the two of us together, and had come to the conclusion that he could not trust me. He said he was going to punish me for choosing you over him."

 

I'm confused. "When did you do that? Peter, were you and Dickie--?" I leave the question unfinished. 

 

Peter sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "What I told Meredith was somewhat untrue. Dickie and I hadn't met for several months; that was true. It's also true that when I first met him, I thought he had a natural charm about him, an innate sexuality." 

 

He pauses, and I realize I am holding my breath. I don't think I can bear to hear a confession of love for Dickie from Peter.

 

"He was exciting to be around. Wherever he has, there was always laughter and fun. But I also saw that he was essentially cruel by nature. Marge had introduced us, and I lost count of the number of times I consoled her after he had treated her badly. I grew disgusted with him and tried to avoid his company, but he had developed something of an obsession with me. I realized that it was probably only because I showed no interest in him that he was intent on pursuing me. If I had given in to him, he would probably have lost interest in me pretty soon."

 

"I wouldn't be so sure," I say quietly. Peter always seems unaware of how beautiful he is. “You don’t know the effect that you can have on others.” 

 

He smiles at me and squeezes my hand. I kiss his bare shoulder, and he leaves his fingers entwined with mine as he continues speaking.

 

"He began preying on me incessantly. Wherever I went he would be there. He hated classical music but would come to all my concerts and sit in the first row. He’d even send me flowers.” Peter’s voice is soft now, a little sad. “And then I gave in. I had been alone for so long, with only my music for company. I had a few good friends, Marge included, but there was always a personal space around me that acted like a bubble, keeping me in isolation. It had been a long time since I had let anyone enter that space, and Dickie’s attentions weakened my resolve. 

 

"Even before we got together, I knew that it would end badly. Dickie and Marge had broken up a few weeks earlier, and she had assured me that she did not want to have any further contact with him. If I had thought for a moment that I would be hurting her, I would never have considered his proposition. But one evening, when he said he was going to go back to her and ask her to marry him, I was shocked. Not so much on my own behalf, but that he had the nerve to continue to pursue her after the way he had treated her. I told him to leave her alone, and he assumed I was jealous. I was disgusted when he suggested that we could continue to meet discreetly, even if he was with Marge or someone else. I told him that I did not want to see him again, and that if he approached Marge again, I would consider it my responsibility to tell Marge about what I knew of his true intentions. 

 

"He was livid. We were in my apartment at the time. I asked him to leave, but he lunged at me and smashed a bottle of wine over my head. I was knocked out for more than an hour. When I came to, my head was bleeding and I was very weak. I was lying on the floor and he was sitting on the sofa, holding a sheaf of papers. It was a score for a concert I was working on at the time, and it was my only copy. Before my eyes, he burnt the last page. He said that if I told Marge or anyone else anything of what had happened, he would destroy the rest of it as well. In my weakened state, I could do nothing to stop him as he shoved the papers into his pocket and left. 

 

"He began blackmailing me constantly after that. Not only would he make me lie to others about his whereabouts and activities whenever he needed an alibi, but he would also… force himself… on me whenever he pleased.” 

 

Peter’s brows are furrowed and there is anger in his voice. “I live for my music, but I would have sacrificed my score to be free of him. He anticipated that, and threatened to expose my homosexuality to the British media. That would have ruined my family’s name and reputation, and although I had broken away from them because of their lack of support for my choices, I could not have lived with the knowledge that I had brought them to ruin. And so I was forced to give in to his increasingly brutal demands.” 

 

I am stunned into silence at this tale, and can say nothing as I gather Peter into my arms and hold him close. What he has told me is horrific, but it is to get worse. 

 

“One night, Dickie showed up at my apartment in Rome. Freddie was with him. They overpowered me and --” He stops and stares into the distance as if he is seeing something that is not there, and his eyes are vacant. I recognize the expression from before, when Dickie had been groping him in front of me. Hot tears of pure rage are in my eyes.

 

“I returned to Venice immediately. I wrote to Dickie telling him he could destroy my work, he could do whatever he wanted, but that if he made any move against my family, I would go to the police. I knew I was endangering my life by doing so, since he could easily have had me killed to silence me. Things quietened down a little after that. Dickie made no attempt to harass me further, and I heard from Marge that they were seeing each other again, and also that they had made a new friend, Tom Ripley. She persuaded me to come to Rome a few times, especially when there was an opera or concert on that she knew I would like. Many times, I was on the brink of telling her everything about Dickie, but she seemed happy. I decided to hold my peace as long as he continued to treat her well, but I cautioned her to be careful.

 

“One night when I was staying over in Rome, Dickie arrived at my apartment, very drunk. He sobbed and begged me not to tell Marge anything, and even returned my score to me. I told him I would stay quiet as long as he treated Marge well and never attempted to harass me again. That was the last time I saw him, before this morning. When I heard of Freddie’s death I was back in Venice, and could only assume like everyone else that Dickie had killed him and then vanished. He seemed to disappear off the face of the earth, and even though Marge was distraught at that, I knew it would be best for her if he never returned. Also, I thought less and less about Dickie those days. My thoughts were distracted by someone I had just met.” He smiles broadly at me, tracing my lips with his fingertip.

 

I have been wondering where I would fit into this tale, and his earnest happiness as he describes meeting me delights me indescribably. I gently suck his finger into my mouth, making him moan softly. He props himself up on his elbow and leans over me to kiss my temple, his hair brushing my forehead. I let my fingers slide into his thick, soft hair, drawing him close and finding his mouth with mine. Peter’s arms tighten around me as his tongue explores my mouth slowly, tenderly. For several giddy moments, the torrent of thoughts in my head is stilled as we lose ourselves in each other. Then we break the kiss reluctantly. He is very close, his arm across my chest, looking down into my eyes. He runs his finger absently down my face and chest as he finishes telling me what happened this morning.

 

“Once Dickie had me secured, I realized all too soon that not only was he back to his old ways, but that being attacked and left for dead had left him more vicious than ever. He took great delight in burning me repeatedly with his cigarettes as he told me how he was going to make me regret consorting with his enemy. I told him nothing would make me turn against you. I told him the bruise around my neck had been caused by you, and that I still believed that you were a far better person than he would ever be.” Peter laughs. “I think he was completely thrown by that.”

 

“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to think of anything else to say.

 

“Don’t be daft,” Peter grins and punches my jaw lightly, playfully. “You may be the most dangerous lover I’ve ever had, but you’re far from being the worst.”

 

“Gee, thanks.” I waggle my tongue at him and he laughs again, covering my mouth with his and nipping my tongue gently with his teeth. Then he pulls back, his eyes growing serious. “He tried to force me to agree to help him masquerade as you. When he realized that torturing me wasn’t going to make me give in to his demand, he played his trump card. Two of them, actually. One, he would go to the authorities and have you arrested. Two, he would tell Marge that you and I had tried to kill him together. She will undoubtedly believe his side of the story; imagine her happiness when she finds him still alive.”

 

I nod, finally understanding the strange events of that day. Despite the unresolved issue of what to do about Dickie, my mind is at peace. I have Peter, I think giddily to myself. He hasn’t left me. He never betrayed me. What he had done that morning was only to protect me. His voice breaks into my thoughts. “You do believe me, don’t you, Tom?”

 

“Every word,” I say firmly.

“And you trust me?”

 

“I do. With my life.”

“Thank heaven for that.” His voice is a little shaky. “I thought I would never be able to earn your trust again, after what I did this morning.”

 

“You had no choice. I know that.”

He smiles his warm, open smile. “No more secrets from each other, okay? I don’t think I can stand another confrontation with you.”

 

I laugh. “No more secrets,” I agree happily.

 

There is nothing I want more than to stay in that bed with Peter for a long, long, time, but we are both wary of what Dickie has been up to. I want Peter to stay in the cabin, to lock himself up and stay safe.

 

“Stay in here. Please,” I beg him.

“None of that,” Peter says firmly, pulling his sweater on again. “We’re in this together.”

 

“He can use us against each other.” I am afraid, more than I am letting on. Dickie is far more dangerous than I could ever have imagined, and the thought that he is perfectly willing and capable of harming Peter is more than I can bear to think about.

 

“Not if we don’t let him,” Peter says gently, firmly. I cannot help but smile at him.

 

Peter glances at his watch. “We’ll be in Athens in a couple of hours. I think I should probably see Dickie alone and try to figure out what his plans are.”

 

“Won’t he guess that you’ve told me everything?”

“Well…” Peter smiles slowly. “Dickie’s pretty narcissistic, as you probably know. I don’t think it’ll be too difficult for me to convince him that I want to help him.”

 

A familiar twinge of worry enters my chest. What does he mean? Whose side is he really on? “What do you mean?”

 

“I can play on his perceptions. Make him believe I see you just as he does… deceitful, scheming, murderous --”

 

“I see.” I turn away from him, my eyes stinging.

 

“No, you don’t.” He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. I stand still, loving the fact that I am in his embrace, and yet horribly afraid that it will be our last. “It’ll only be an act, silly,” he says affectionately, kissing the side of my head.

 

I put my hands on top of his as they rest on my waist. “I know,” I whisper, leaning my head back against his shoulder and letting him nuzzle my throat. “It’ll be fine,” he says softly, reassuringly, laying kisses on my neck as he speaks. “We’ll be fine.”

 

“I hope so.” I turn around in his arms, resting my forehead against his. “I really hope so, Peter. I want to…” How can I ever tell him how much I want to be with him, keep him safe, have him look after me?

 

“What do you want?” His voice is gentle, teasing, and yet solemn.

“I want… I want to stay this way with you forever. I’ve done so much… so much to endanger you. If something happens to you… if… if something goes wrong… Peter, I want you to remember that I’d rather die than lose you.”

 

He presses a finger against my lips. “None of that,” he says again, tenderly, holding me tighter. “We’re going to be fine. We’ll get through this. I promise you that.”

 

I nod, my throat too tight to let me speak.

“You have to let me go,” he says, his voice gentle as ever. He makes no move to disentangle himself from my arms. I nod again, swallowing hard, trying to crush my misgivings about the whole situation. “Peter… If he suspects for even a moment that you aren’t on his side --”

 

“--he’ll kill me. I know.” Peter’s voice is oddly calm. “Don’t worry about me, Tom. Just give me your word that you’ll stay out on deck in view of others, so he can’t do anything to hurt you.”

 

“I will, I promise. What are you going to do?”

 

“Find him, talk to him. See if I can get him to agree to leave you alone.”

 

“He’s never going to agree to that. He wants revenge.”

 

“Let’s see if we can’t do anything to change his mind.” Peter smiles enigmatically. He presses his hand against my cheek briefly. “Shall we?”

 

I nod and we step out of his cabin together. There is no one in the corridor and I take his hand as we walk, squeezing his fingers with mine. His hands are as warm as mine are cold. “You’re freezing,” he says, and takes a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket. “Here, put these on.” I do so gratefully and he flashes me a quick smile. “Good boy.”

 

As we emerge into the open, we see Dickie lazing in a deck chair. Meredith is beside him, and they are chatting amicably.

 

“Ah, there you are!” she says as we reach them. “I was wondering what you boys were up to. Tom said you weren’t feeling well, Dickie.”

“He’s fine,” Peter says shortly. “Tom, I was wondering if I may have a word alone with you.”

 

Meredith jumps up at that and grabs me by the arm. “He’s all yours, Peter. Come, Dickie, let’s go get some coffee.” Peter nods politely at her as I allow her to lead me away. I want to keep them in sight, but there seems to be no way of doing that.

 

The next thirty minutes are sheer torture as I sit in the dining room with Meredith, trying to keep track of what she is saying while my mind is on Dickie and Peter. I remember the twinge of worry that I felt when Peter said he was going to convince Dickie that he was on his side. The worried feeling has escalated considerably now, but it is only my anxiety that Peter will get hurt. I have no vestige of doubt about Peter’s loyalties anymore.

 

Meredith is pouting now. “I don’t believe you’ve been listening to a single word I’ve said, Dickie,” she complains.

 

I try to relax my face into a smile. “I’m sorry, Meredith. It’s just that I’m so excited about seeing Athens.”

 

“Oh, yes! Me too. Where will you be staying?”

 

“I -- I’m not sure.” Would Peter want me to stay with him? That would hardly convince Dickie that Peter wanted nothing to do with me.

 

“Oh, never mind. I’m sure you’ll find something nice. How long are you planning to stay?”

 

“I’m not sure. How about you?”

“A week or so, I should say.” She squeezes my arm. “Maybe we can sneak away from everyone for a little holiday of our own.”

 

I think of saying the same thing to Peter, and smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

 

She kisses my cheek, her face radiant, and I cannot help but feel a slight pang of guilt. “I have to finish packing now or my aunt will throw a blue fit. I’ll see you in Athens.”

 

I assure her that I will, and take a few moments to calm myself and finish my cigarette after she leaves. My mind is in a whirl now, desperately trying to envision what has happened in the meantime between Peter and Dickie.

 

When I go back on deck, they are nowhere to be seen. I try to reassure myself that that means nothing. Peter probably wanted to talk to Dickie in private. I wish I had told him to stay out on deck.

 

The Hellenes is slowly drifting into the harbour now, and there are sounds of people emerging from their cabins. Many of the passengers go to the railing to catch their first glimpses of the beautiful city, and I hang back, looking around for any sign of Peter.

I am just wondering if it would be safe to go down to Peter’s cabin when I feel a hand at my elbow. “Enjoying the view, are we?” Dickie says softly in my ear.

 

I jerk my arm away from his. “Where’s Peter?”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him.” He laughs and gazes at the docks as we draw ever closer.

 

What does he mean? I force myself not to show too much concern on my face. He should not think that Peter and I have any feelings left for each other if we are to succeed, but I cannot help being worried. “What did he say to you?” I ask harshly.

 

“Oh, you know. The usual. That boy just can’t seem to get enough of me. I’d forget about him if I were you.”

 

“That’s not a problem,” I say coldly. “What do you intend to do next?”

 

“Wait and watch, Tommy. Wait and watch.” He laughs and disappears into the crowd. Cursing him inwardly, I make my way down to Peter’s cabin.

 

The door is ajar, swinging slightly with the movements of the ship. “Peter?” I step in and look around. He is not there. I check the washroom and the closet. All his belongings are gone, including his trunk. Where are you?

 

Has Dickie done something to him? No… his belongings would still have been here if he had. Wouldn’t they? I don’t know, and not knowing is driving me mad. I don’t even know which cabin was Dickie’s, so I cannot look for Peter there.

 

I realize that the ship has stopped moving, and hurry back to my cabin, hoping to find Peter there. He isn’t. Sick at heart, I gather my things and go back out on deck.

 

He is not among the disembarking passengers. Could he already have gotten off? Surely he would have waited for me.

 

I have no choice but to disembark with everyone else. I catch sight of Meredith and her family along the way. “Have you seen Peter?” I call to her. “Not since we left him on the deck with Tom!” she calls back, waving goodbye as she is swept away by the crowd.

 

I wait at the docks in front of the anchored ship, shivering in the cold wind. Peter will come, I know he will. I watch the passengers collecting their luggage and getting into cars and buses. Soon I am the only passenger left there, and Peter still has not come. There is a clap of thunder and the grey sky opens up, soaking me instantly to the bone. “Taxi, sir?” A departing cab stops a few feet away from me. I look around, torn. I am shaking with the cold now, my wet clothes feeling like ice around me.

 

I ask the cabbie for the name of a hotel, and then hastily scribble a note. Am at the Excelsior. T.R. I fold it over, not having an envelope handy, and scribble Peter Smith-Kingsley on the top. I ask the cabbie to wait and find the harbour master’s office.

 

The bare office somehow seems even colder than the outside. I step up to the man behind the desk. “I need some help -- do you speak English?” He nods.

 

“I lost my friend in the crowd. I’m Thomas Ripley. His name is Peter Smith-Kingsley. Six foot two, dark hair. Will you give him this message if he comes looking for me?”

“Aye, I can do that.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome, Mr Ripley. Enjoy your stay in Greece, and I hope you find your friend soon.”

 

I get into the cab and turn around for a last glimpse of the Hellenes and the empty, rain-lashed docks as the car speeds away.

 

We’re going to be fine. We’ll get through this. I promise you that. 

 

Peter. I am sick with fear and worry. Where have you gone?

 

*****

 

As my cab pulls away from the docks, I can swear I hear Peter’s voice calling to me. I turn around desperately, hoping to see him there, but all I can see is the deserted docks through a heavy blur of torrential rain, the Hellenes a looming dark blur rising over the horizon as the car speeds away from it. From Peter.

By the time I check into my hotel room, my nausea has got the better of me and the first thing I do is go to the bathroom and retch. Afterwards I lie curled up on the bed, completely at a loss for perhaps the first time in my life. Tom Ripley has always had a plan, no matter how difficult things seem to get, but this time my destiny seems to in someone else’s hands.

I force myself to get up and pour a drink with shaking hands. Unbidden, words that he had said to me this morning come to mind.

“I thought I would never be able to earn your trust again, after what I did.”

“No more secrets from each other, okay? I don’t think I can stand another confrontation with you.”

“None of that. We’re in this together.”

“I don’t think it’ll be too difficult for me to convince him that I want to help him.”

“I can play on his perceptions. Make him believe I see you just as he does… deceitful, scheming, murderous --”

“We’re going to be fine. We’ll get through this. I promise you that.”

“You have to let me go.”

Had we only had that conversation this morning? I see you just as he does… deceitful, scheming, murderous.

No. No, he had said that hadn’t meant it that way. Deceitful, scheming, murderous. How easily those words had slipped out of his mouth, as if he had been thinking them for a long time.

There can only be two reasons for his having disappeared today. Either he has actually gone over to Dickie’s side, or -- it is difficult to even articulate the thought in my mind -- or Dickie has done something to him. The first possibility means that he is still alive, but that he has betrayed me. The second means that he has not abandoned me after all… but that he is lost to me forever.

That he is dead.

I do not know which possibility I prefer.

No. Please, no. Let him be okay, let him be alive, even if he has chosen to desert me.

But he was the only one to ever love me. Isn’t it better for him to be dead, rather than a traitor?

The objective Tom jeers at me from somewhere inside. What right do you have to see him as a traitor? You tried to kill him.

No, a small voice insists. He forgave me for what I did. I know he did.

He is dead.

I feel my world slowly crumble, the ground give way beneath my feet. Almost gasping for breath, I collapse into a chair. What can I do? I have always had a plan. Why did I ever come to rely on him so much that I cannot think unless he is near? I wish I could stop the images in my head from playing. Images of Dickie hurting him, murdering him. Or, even more unbearably, of them together, happy, gloating at my torment. Him as I first saw him, charming, cultured, dazzling in his suit, looking like he had the world in his hands. How much of what he had told me had actually been true? Could that elegant, self-assured man really have been a victim of blackmail, in the way that he had described? I had thought I heard the ring of truth in his voice as he had lain beside me this morning, speaking to me so earnestly, his words simple, his pain real, his love evident. And I had seen those burns on his skin, touched them myself. Did he care so much for my enemy that he had subjected himself to such pain to create a deception?

Stop that. He did not lie. He does not lie. His face is too open, his eyes too honest.

And yet, if that is true, then he could not have deceived Dickie into thinking that they were on the same side. Which meant that…

I am thinking myself into circles, my mind slowly growing numb with confusion and despair. I am alone in Athens and he is gone, and I may never know what became of the only person who ever loved me.

 

*****

 

Writer’s note: Since the events on the Hellenes are now concluded, this part of the story ends here.

II

1.

 

Deceitful, scheming, murderous. A description that certainly fits both my recent partners rather well. Meeting Dickie again did not raise any dormant feelings in me of the time that we had shared. Most of it had been vile, admittedly, but I cannot deny that Dickie had left an impression on me that no one else had quite managed to.

Until Tom, of course. Tom, with his childlike smile and his wonderfully blue eyes and his passion for me. Everything which crumbled into nothingness for a few abysmal hours after his passion turned murderous, turning on me with the most terrifying tenacity as he wrapped the cord from my own robe around my throat and half strangled the life out of me.

I almost wish he had succeeded.

It’s not like me to think such thoughts at all. It isn’t remotely like me. It’s not like me to be such a fool. Oh, I’ve been a fool for love before. But never blinded to this extent, never in a state where I embraced my own doom willingly, giving my would-be killer a second chance.

But he had proven himself, to some extent. He had seemed genuinely inconsolable at what he had done. If Dickie hadn’t turned up when he had, Tom and I may have been able to set things completely right by now.

But no. Of course things never work out the way one wants them to. Of course it’s always the worst possible scenario that emerges from the wealth of possibilities offered by a single moment.

And so I find myself alone with Dickie on the deck of the Hellenes, sharing a last, miserable glance with Tom before he and Meredith disappear. I turn away from their retreating backs and my eyes meet Dickie’s.

“Won’t you sit down?” he smirks softly, shifting his legs so that he is straddling the lounge chair. I take a deep breath and sit, my posture mimicking his, facing him. Time to take the plunge, Peter old boy.

He takes a long swig of his Irish coffee, and then wipes the froth off his lips with his sleeve before handing me the mug. I take it almost gratefully and put it to my lips, the sharpness of the whiskey-drenched caffeine soothing my frayed senses a little.

“So, did you spill all the beans to your precious little Tom?”

“Don’t call him that, Dickie. The man tried to murder me.”

His eyebrows arch in a familiar, arrogant gesture that makes me want to hit him. Peter Smith-Kingsley, barely controlling the urge towards violence? I’ve been hanging around with amoral men for too long.

“I thought you said he was still honourable, blah blah? A hundred times better than I’d ever be, and all that jazz?” he drawls.

Nothing has made me cringe ever before like the effort I have to put in to arrange my features into an expression that, I hope, will convey regret and some measure of tenderness.

“I’m sorry I used those words, Dick. I had to appease him. I couldn’t have both of you out for my blood.”

A strong wind whips my hair over my face, and before I can reach up his hand is there, smoothing my hair out of my eyes in a surprisingly tender gesture. “So what are you saying now, Pete?”

“I’m saying I want to know how you want to play this. And I’m saying that I’m with you no matter what you decide.”

“Really.” His tone is soft, unreadable, but I can see his eyes raking my face, trying to gauge my intentions.

“Really.”

“Even if my intent is to kill the snivelling little bastard and be rid of him for good?”

I am surprised at how little the words affect me. Surely I should feel something, anything, at that scathing denunciation of the man who has come to mean so much to me. But there seems to be a fathomless pit where my heart used to be, the core of my being hollowed by too much treachery and brutality.

“Even if that is your intent.” My tongue seems to have a will of its own, speaking words that seem to belong to someone else. “But I would prefer to leave his punishment to the authorities.”

He leans in toward me, slipping his hand behind my neck and gripping me like a vice. “And what if I don’t want to do that?” he breathes into my ear.

I expected that my flesh would crawl at his touch, but all I feel is a mild prickling as he holds me in place. I cannot tell if the sensation is the result of indulgence or loathing. My body seems to have a will of its own that my mind is not privy to.

“I honestly don’t know, Dick. At any rate, the decision is hardly in my hands.”

“What if I put it in your hands?”

“What do you mean?”

“Make a choice. His side or mine. Make a decision, Pete.” His voice is almost pleading, but his grip on me remains harsh. “Now.”

“What about Marge?”

He lets go of me, raking his fingers through is hair in a violent motion. “What about Marge? Let her think me dead. The one good thing Ripley ever did was free me from her clutches.”

“That’s cruel, Dick.”

“More cruel than what your boyfriend did to me?”

“I told you not to refer to him that way.” My voice is a little sharp. I’m still trying to get used to these new tones in my voice and behaviour that Dickie and Tom have infused in me.

He has the grace to look abashed. “Point taken, love. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“No. No, it’s not more cruel than what he did to you. It’s not even remotely as cruel as what he did. But Marge need not suffer for what he --”

“Marge deserves to suffer for the clingy little insect she is!” Spit sprays like venom from his mouth. A couple of people walking past turn and glance at him.

“Let’s get inside,” he mutters. He takes me firmly by the elbow and hauls me to my feet, and I have no choice but to follow him back to his cabin.

He unlocks the door and pushes me inside with a hand on my back. I force myself to stifle the exasperation I feel at being pushed around yet again, but I have always kept my emotions hidden in the face of antagonism. It’s the only way I can keep my emotions in check; by letting others see me as composed Peter Smith-Kingsley, the tranquil musician who does not have an ounce of violence in him. It’s the only way I can keep my whole building of skeletons from crashing down on me.

His hand on my back thrusts me forwards and I slam into the wall, the breath knocked out of me. Before I can recover he has turned me around forcibly and clamped his mouth on mine in a frenzy of passion, and I groan inwardly even as I struggle to breathe. What is it about me that turns men into such monsters?

I gasp out his name as he removes his mouth from mine for a moment, hoping he will think it is out of reciprocated passion rather than as a protest against not being allowed to breathe. “I’m sorry, Pete.” He is breathing rather heavily, his eyes looking into mine almost sorrowfully. “I can’t let you go. You’re the only one who knows the whole story, who can give me away to Marge.”

“Dick, I said I would --” He cuts me off with a hand over my mouth. “Don’t say a word, Pete. It’s too late. I wish I could… I… You’re the only one who could have… But now, I can’t… I dare not… I have no choice…” He is babbling now, almost sobbing as he clings to me. Oh, dear lord. Must they all weep before they threaten my life?

He manhandles my arms behind my back and binds them with a coil of rope from his pocket. Here we go again. I groan as the ropes bite into my wrists, already bruised from Tom’s bindings. He does a very thorough job, winding the rope securely over my forearms and elbows as well, until my arms are pinned uselessly behind my back.

“On the bed, Pete,” he says quietly. I obey silently and lie still as he binds my ankles together as well. He moves to the door and unlocks it. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Dick,” I say, with as much composure as I can gather.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ll be back later. Don’t worry, no one will disturb you while I’m gone. The Greenleaf name works wonders, you see.”

With that, he is gone.

If I weren’t on the verge of being murdered for the second time in two days, it would probably be hilariously funny that I am again in the same predicament as Tom had forced me into in my own cabin. At least I am conscious this time. I am suddenly aware that even though the Hellenes is still bucking, the engines have died. We must have docked. There is a porthole right above the bed, and through it I can see the turbulent grey sky outside. A storm is brewing, making the ship strain against its chains like a bronco. If I can raise myself on to my knees, I just may be able to look through the porthole. I am lying on my stomach, and it takes several agonizing minutes before I am able to pull myself up on my knees, my shoulders wrenched back and hurting most damnably. My eyes can just about peer out above the rim of the rounded opening.

My porthole is almost at the level of the water, but the Hellenes is moored a good distance away from the pier, and I can see passengers and crew milling about on the docks, gathering their belongings and getting into waiting cars and buses. Their belongings… My heart feels like a cold hand has gripped it without warning. My score. I do not have it. The last time I had seen it was just before Tom had attacked me in my cabin. I let out a howl of frustration and struggle against my bindings, but only succeed in making my skin chafe more than ever under the rough ropes. My file must have fallen on the floor during my struggle with Tom. Is it too much to hope that he will notice it, that he will take care of it? Will he even go back to my cabin before he disembarks? He has no reason to. Of all that I have lost during this infernal voyage, the loss of the only copy of the sonata I have been working on for months is perhaps the worst blow of all.

I force myself to take deep breaths, to focus on the situation at hand. I wonder if Dickie is far enough away not to hear me if I try calling out for help, and hesitate. The sea is wild even in the harbour, and before I can decide whether or not to take the risk of calling attention to myself, the Hellenes dips suddenly and a wave of salt water crashes through the porthole, entering my nose and eyes roughly and making me rear back on the bed. I manage to keep my balance but my eyes sting devilishly, and I curse aloud as my dripping hair works itself into salt-soaked strands that form a curtain in front of my eyes. If I’d stayed at home, at least Mum would have made me get a haircut by now. The thought is enough to bring me to the verge of a hysterical laugh. It is several moments before I can shake the hair away from my face and blink enough of the salt away to look through the opening again.

And the first thing I see is Tom, looking utterly forsaken and lost.

He is standing close to the edge of the pier, looking desperately into the rapidly thinning crowd. I know he is searching for me, frantic for my safety, his paranoia building as he tries to envision why I am not there. I instinctively call out his name, but no more than a whisper emerges, followed by a cough and the stinging taste of salt in my throat and nostrils. I desperately try to clear my throat and call out again. This time my voice is stronger, but I already know that there is not a hope of him hearing me over the roar of the ocean.

Before I can call out again there is a deafening roar of thunder and the sky splits open, and sheets of water begin cascading on the pier and on to the Hellenes. Somewhat to my amazement, Tom stands his ground, allowing the rain to soak him through completely. His shoulders are slumped in defeat, and my heart, unbidden, goes out to him as a powerful emotion ripples through my body, making me shiver with more than just the cold. Nothing but complete devotion to me could make him look like that, and I hate seeing him so utterly despondent. “Tom!” I scream as if my very life depends on his hearing me. Which, in all honesty, it does. He does not hear me, and a taxi stops in front of him. “Tom!” I scream again, my lungs burning. “Tom, I’m here! Tom!” He turns around and begins walking back towards me, and my heart pounds. Could he possibly have --? No. He disappears into a nearby building. Barely a minute later he is back and enters the taxi before my eyes, and I am powerless to stop him. The car revs its engines and I scream out his name again with every ounce of strength that I can muster. “Tom! Tom!” I think I see him turn around in his seat as the car moves away, but it is too late. The car is rapidly swallowed up by the downpour and I can see it no more. I keep looking out after it nevertheless, unmindful of the rain beating on my face, as my last glimmer of hope evanesces before my eyes.

The next few hours are the most wretched of my life, as the cabin grows dark and I lie on the sodden bed. My limbs have lost almost all sensation from being bound for so long, but I know that my wrists are scraped and bleeding from the raw hemp cutting into them. The salt from the water that keeps trickling in through the porthole makes the cuts sting horribly if I move my hands, but I do not dare to stop trying to loosen my bonds. At long last, when the cabin is almost completely dark except for the moonlight streaming through the porthole, I feel a knot give. I work carefully on the ropes, my spirit somewhat renewed, and several torturous minutes later, I feel the ropes around my wrists give way completely.

Before I can even untangle my wrists completely from the rope, I hear footsteps outside the cabin. I hastily wind the rope around my wrists again as securely as possible, biting my lip to keep from crying out as pain shoots through my raw and bleeding wrists.

I hear the soft jingle of keys before the door opens noiselessly, and Dickie is silhouetted in the doorway. There is a large lantern in his hand, which he sets on the small table by the bed as he peers down at me. The light slices into my eyes like a blade, and I turn my head away as he takes out a knife and rapidly slits the cords binding my feet.

He grabs me around the waist and makes me stand. My numbed feet give way under me and he holds me tightly against him to keep me upright. The sinister embrace offers me little comfort. “Come on, Pete,” he whispers, almost tenderly. The lamp casts a soft glow around the little cabin and the entire scene seems to me to be a menacing parody of a lovers’ meeting. He blows out the lamp and half-drags, half-carries me out of the cabin and up the stairs to the deck. Every movement is increasingly painful, but it also helps me regain my circulation. I grow more confident of my movements as the pain sends life back into my limbs, but am careful not to reveal this to Dickie, leaning heavily on him as he guides us across the deck to the railing.

The moon is high in the night sky and there is not a soul in sight as Dickie drags me over to the railing and makes me lean over it so that I am doubled over, my head and torso dangling over the edge. My world is inverted and I see a large sandbag on the deck next to my feet. Dickie bends over and swiftly begins lashing my ankles together again. A wave of nausea rises in my throat. It is all too clear what he intends to do. “Dickie, don’t do this!” I have to shout to be heard against the waves that are crashing against the starboard side of the ship. Dickie says nothing as he finishes binding my feet and attaches the rope to the mouth of the sandbag. He then wraps his arms around the sandbag with some difficulty and hoists it over the railing, panting heavily with exertion as he lets it rest next to me for a moment.

I feel his fingers on my scalp as he yanks my head back by my hair. Our eyes meet, but I can see nothing but blackness in his. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he whispers into my ear, and presses his lips briefly, fiercely, against my temple. Then his other hand grasps the rope around my ankles as he hoists my legs up, and for a moment I am balanced on my stomach on the railing, his right hand clutching my hair and his left arm wrapped around my thighs. Then he shoves me forwards and down.

I drop like a stone, but it is nothing compared to what happens when the rope around my ankles jerks painfully as the sandbag falls as well. It hits me squarely on the back and plummets me face forwards towards the blackness of the sea. I try wildly to take a deep breath just before I hit the water, but the attempt is useless. My body slams into the bitterly cold surface of the ocean like it was a slab of granite rather than water, the impact knocking the air out of my lungs. The collision feels bone-shattering, and just as I feel myself being sucked into the freezing black waters, everything goes black.

2.

I cannot stop killing him. The dreams will not let me stop.

 

My first night in Athens without Peter is unbearable, not only because I miss him as if a vital part of my body and soul has been cut away, but because I betray him yet again in my dreams.

 

I dream that he is playing the piano, his long, elegant fingers creating the most beautiful music that I have ever heard. I stand behind him, my hands caressing his back, slipping gently around his neck. He smiles as he plays. “Tom, you’re crushing me,” he says playfully. And then he stops playing, his voice rising in alarm. “Tom!” And then he can speak no more because my fingers have tightened in a death grip around his throat and there is nothing he can do but fight for his very last breath.

 

I wake up in a cold sweat, sobbing. Oh, god. Peter. My Peter. What have I done? Why had I ever left him alone with Dickie?

 

Consumed only by the thought of finding Peter, I force myself to dress and gulp down a cup of coffee. The only course of action I have at the moment is to go back to the harbour master’s office, and hope that Peter has been there and left me a message. Had he got my message? Had he called the hotel and asked for Tom Ripley, not realizing that I would register as Dickie Greenleaf?

 

As I drain the last of my coffee and will myself to think positively, a small news item in the folded newspaper catches my eye. Body found at Athens harbour. By the time I finish reading the brief article, I feel as if all the blood in my veins has turned to ice.

 

Fishermen returning to the shore late last night found the body of a man who appears to have been the victim of a brutal murder. The victim is described by the police as a tall, well-built man in his late twenties to early thirties. The body is as yet unidentified, and the precise cause of death has not yet been revealed, although there seems little doubt that the death occurred as a result of foul play. The body has been taken to the city morgue for a post-mortem examination.

 

The description fits him. No. It cannot be him.

 

I have to know, even though it will kill me to know. I must go down to the police station, to the morgue. Hardly knowing what I am doing, I leave the room and go down to the lobby.

 

Only to run headlong into a smiling Dickie.

 

“Well, good morning.” He is absurdly cheerful, whistling as he twirls a bunch of keys in the air, making them jingle. “Did you sleep well, Dickie?” His voice is loud, jovial.

 

So he is continuing the charade. The thought barely registers as I clench my hands into fists, willing myself to keep from hitting him. He nods casually in the direction of the newspaper that is under my arm. “I see you’ve read the news about Peter. Sad, isn’t it?”

 

I am stunned by the nonchalant observation. “They haven’t identified the body,” I whisper. It is the only thing I can think of to say, the only thing that is giving me hope.

 

“Ah, but you and I know better than them, don’t we?” he whispers conspiratorially, winking. “I just finished the job for you, love. Don’t mention it.”

 

“You bastard.” My voice is barely audible, my vision blurred with grief and rage. “You unspeakable bastard.”

 

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Is that any way to speak to a man who’s just done you a great favour?”

 

“Why him?” I whisper, my brain still reeling, disbelieving. “Why him and not me?”

 

“Because you’re so much fun to torture, love. I couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when you found out. Boy, is it rewarding. Poor little Tommy boy is all torn up ’cause Pete’s dead.”

 

I can no longer stand still, no longer stay in his presence. I turn and stumble away, hardly noticing where I am going. I stagger through one of the French windows onto a patio that overlooks the swimming pool. The sun is shining brightly, and I have never been colder. I collapse into a chair, feeling as if I am on the verge of blacking out.

 

He has followed me into the sunshine. “Don’t you want to know how it happened? Come now, don’t disappoint me. I have such a lovely tale to tell, and you’d be the perfect listener.” He sprawls on a chair next to mine. I feel his strong, tanned hand on mine. He squeezes my fingers gently. “Poor little Tommy,” he whispers. “Poor, rotten, selfish Tommy. You didn’t deserve that beautiful creature. You know that, don’t you?” I am frozen, tears spilling silently from my eyes. His voice seems to be coming from very, very far away.

 

“No, you didn’t deserve him,” he goes on. “And neither did I. He was too good to be of this world, you know? People like him, the world doesn’t deserve them. And so they have to die.” A sob escapes my throat. “There, there, Tommy.” He pats my hand. “Let it out.” I cannot control the sobs now, deep, wracking sobs that tear out of my body, threatening to slash me to pieces with their force. Dickie wraps his arms around me and rocks me gently as I sob. I clutch blindly at Peter’s murderer, almost insane with anguish.

 

He whispers the horrific tale into my ear in excruciating detail. How he had kept Peter captive in his cabin all day. How he had gone back aboard the Hellenes at night. How he had dragged Peter out on deck and pushed him overboard with a sandbag bound to his ankles. How he had watched him drown, and kept watching until the last ripple had died away, and the sea was calm again.

 

“Did you know he could see you from my cabin when you were waiting at the docks for him yesterday?” he goes on softly. “I saw him as I was leaving. I was the only one who noticed him, because only I knew that he was there. I knew no one would be able to spot him, and I rather enjoyed watching him trying to get your attention. Oh, Tommy. If only you had turned around one more time.” He shakes his head sorrowfully.

 

And then it seems as if all my muscles come to life together, and I launch myself at him, my fists hitting every part of him that I can reach. He goes down and I pick up a chair in blind fury, intent only on beating him to a pulp. I feel my arms grabbed from behind, and the chair is wrenched from my grasp as two security guards drag me away from Dickie. He is grinning as he picks himself up and wipes the blood from his lips.

 

I am dreaming again, the cruelest dream of all. I dream that I am waking up from a nightmare in which he is dead. He is lying beside me, and stirs sleepily as I jerk awake and reach for him blindly, frantically. “Tom?” he says gently, his voice soft with sleep. “What’s wrong?” “Peter,” I gasp, thankful beyond words to find that he is alive, that he is safe, that he is with me. “Oh, Peter. Thank god. Thank god. I had the most terrifying dream.” I clutch him to me, shaking. “Sshh. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He holds me close, my fears melting away at the sound of his voice, the feel of his warm skin against mine. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you, Tom. I promise. I’ll never leave you.”

 

I struggle awake only to find myself on a cold stone bench at the police station, where I have been held for the night following my assault on Dickie. This is what it’s like to be awake. Freezing, shaking, dying inside. I have not said a word to the police yet. They want a statement, and I can say nothing. They want to know why I assaulted another guest at the hotel. The only thing I have asked, over and over and over, is to be allowed to look at Peter one last time. My requests have been denied.

 

They finally hand me a prewritten statement stating that I apologize for the attack and that I will not go within five hundred metres of ‘Tom Ripley’ again. As Dickie Greenleaf, I have also been asked to keep the authorities informed of all my movements and to not leave Athens under any circumstances, since I am a prime suspect in the murders of Freddie Miles and Peter Smith-Kingsley. Now that the only person who really knew me as Tom Ripley is irretrievably lost, I do not have the will or energy to try and stake my claim on Tom’s identity again. I scribble Dickie’s signature on the statement silently, collect my effects from the counter, and stumble out onto the street.

 

There is a newspaper stall across the road, and I move automatically towards it and pick up the morning paper. The news item today is much more emphatic than the previous day’s.

 

MURDER VICTIM IDENTIFIED

Young British professor and musician brutally slain

 

The body found at Athens harbour yesterday has been identified as that of Dr Peter Smith-Kingsley, an English professor of classical music and well-known opera repetiteur residing in Venice. Dr Smith-Kingsley, 29, was on his way to Athens, where he was to participate in a concert to be organized by the Athens Philharmonic Association in two weeks. Tragically, the young musician’s life was cut short when he met a violent end, presumably sometime during his voyage aboard the cruise liner Hellenes, on which he had embarked from Venice earlier this week. The perpetrator of the crime is still at large, although the police are hopeful about making an arrest shortly.

 

Dr Smith-Kingsley was the oldest son of the aristocratic Smith-Kingsleys, an illustrious British family, and is survived by his parents and two siblings. The family has been notified, and the body will be flown to England for burial after it is released by the authorities. “Peter was a gentle and selfless human being, and an inimitable teacher,” says Father Alberto Giordano, Head of the Department of Classical Music Studies at the University of Venice, where Dr Smith-Kingsley was a guest professor. “He is irreplaceable. Our thoughts are with his family at this difficult time, and we pray that his soul finds eternal peace.”

 

The shocking murder has also been unofficially linked to the killing of American tourist Frederick Miles in Rome several weeks ago, although the authorities have refused to comment at this time on the possible connection between the two deaths.

 

Accompanying the article is a large black and white photograph of Peter at the organ, conducting an orchestra in the very cathedral where I had seen him rehearse for the first time. Where I had gazed at him with my heart in my eyes and seen his face alight with love for me.

 

I hold the paper close to my chest and sink down to the pavement as a wave of dizziness washes over me. A couple of passersby move to help me and I hit out at them in blind fury, pulling myself to my feet. I begin to run, staggering as if I am intoxicated, but knowing that I cannot stop. I run and run until I reach the end of the road and there is nothing ahead but an endless white beach, and there is nothing I can do but fall and cry and cry and cry until I have no more tears left.

 

“Tom?” He is shaking me awake gently, his hand on my shoulder. “Wake up. You’ll catch your death of cold out here.” His voice is full of concern for me. I raise my head from where I have been resting it on the oak table on his terrace. “I fell asleep. I was waiting for you,” I say, the sleep vanishing instantly from my eyes at the sight of him. “I know,” he smiles his warm, radiant smile, and I feel as if my heart will drown in love for him. “The rehearsal went on longer than I expected. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He slips off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders, rubbing his hands down my cold arms. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” He leads me into his apartment where there is a merry fire crackling in the fireplace, and there is love and warmth everywhere. He deposits me on the sofa and gently pushes a crystal glass of wine into my hands. His nearness warms me instantly, and I lean my head against his chest as he sits close to me in front of the fire. I have never felt so cared for in my life, and tears of self-pity threaten to blot my vision. “Why are you so good to me?” I whisper. “Because you deserve it, and so much more, my precious Tom,” he says, his lips against my hair, his arms secure around me, as if he will never let me go. And I know with absolute conviction that I have found home at last.

 

I wake up freezing on the beach. A group of raggedly-dressed children is looking curiously at me. They must think I am a madman. I look around frantically for the newspaper, but it has long since been borne away by the wind. Only a small fragment remains in my clutching fingers, showing Peter’s hands on the keys of his beloved organ. I smooth out the scrap of paper on the sand with infinite tenderness, remembering the touch of those hands, and a feral howl threatens to break out of my chest.

 

I do not remember how I make it back to the hotel. As I enter the lobby I feel as if every eye in the room is on me, and I keep my eyes on the floor as I make my way to my room. I am utterly exhausted by my grief, which has hollowed me out and left me little more than a shell.

 

I enter my room to find Dickie sprawled on my bed, smoking a foul-smelling cigar. The sight of him stirs nothing in me, as if my soul has died with Peter. “Ah, there you are at last. I was beginning to worry.” He gets up and pours me a drink. “Here, you need this.” He thrusts the glass into my hands and pushes me into a chair. He sits down at the edge of the bed, facing me. A memory hits me sharply, of sitting with Peter in the same way on board the Hellenes, and I retch, my guts twisting. My empty stomach brings up nothing, and I drain the glass quickly. Dickie laughs and refills it.

 

“What do you want with me?” I ask, my voice hoarse, more for the sake of saying something than out of any real curiosity.

 

He smiles charmingly. “You mean, what more could I possibly take away from you?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. I didn’t want to hurt Peter, you know. Not really. He didn’t deserve to die. But it was the only way to make you suffer. This is the way I wanted to see you, broken, defeated. You’re boring again. A pity, really. At least you showed some life when you attacked me on the boat that day. Oh, but wait. One thing’s different. You’re Dickie now, aren’t you? And I, Tom, will ensure that the police has enough evidence to put Dickie away for a long, long time. And with the tidy little sum that my dear father has already written out to Tom, I should be able to live pretty comfortably. Don’t you think?”

 

I say nothing. Part of me is relieved that it will soon be over. I am almost looking forward to living out my punishment, for I deserve the harshest punishment for getting Peter killed.

 

Dickie gets up and ruffles my hair. “Oh, I thought you might want this. As a keepsake of our beloved Peter.” He pulls a familiar brown folder from his coat and flings it carelessly onto the bed. “I took the liberty of taking it from your cabin a couple of days ago. Cheerio, now. Sleep tight.”

 

I barely hear the door close behind him as I move to the bed and run my fingertips tentatively over the folder. Guilt wrenches my insides again as I remember thinking that Peter had taken his score from under my pillow while I had been asleep. Why, why had he been so guileless? He had never once thought of betraying me, despite what I had done to him. He had not thought of protecting or defending himself, and now I was alone because he had gotten himself killed. Sudden anger at him flares in me, and I pick up the folder and throw it across the room, the sheets of paper scattering on the floor.

 

I am regretting the action almost before the folder has hit the floor. Oh god, Peter. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I scramble on my knees to pick up every last sheet of paper. They are all numbered carefully in Peter’s neat script, and I arrange them devotedly, caressing each sheet as if it were a part of Peter himself, and put them back in the folder. The alcohol swirling in my otherwise empty stomach lulls me into drowsiness and I curl up on the floor, the precious folder clutched in my arms.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night to find him in a familiar position, lying on his stomach with his score propped up in front of him, chewing absently at the end of his pencil as he gazes at his music. He sees that I am awake and turns to me. “I hope the light didn’t wake you.” The only light in the bedroom is from the softly glowing lamp on his side of the bed. “Do you even work in your sleep?” I throw a pillow at him and he ducks, laughing happily. I roll on top of him and wrestle him onto his back as he laughs and struggles half-heartedly, allowing me to pin his arms above his head as I straddle him. His face looks angelic in the soft lamplight, and I cannot resist showering him with kisses; on his forehead, his closed eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his lips. He sighs with happiness and relaxes in my arms, letting me think that he has given in to me. The moment I let my guard down, he grabs me and rolls us over so that he is on top. We are both breathless, laughing. I close my eyes in sheer bliss as he leans over me, his hair tickling my face, my mouth yielding under his. We make love to each other until the early hours of the morning, when we finally fall asleep in utter contentment, our limbs entangled and my head cradled in the crook of his arm.

 

I awake to the sound of birds chirping from outside the window. It is another perfect morning in Athens. How Peter would have loved it. My limbs are sore and cramped from being on the floor all night, and I am grateful for the rolled-up jacket under my head, which has prevented my neck from getting stiff as well. I don’t even remember when I had put it there. Peter’s sonata is lying beside me, and I place it carefully on the writing desk beside the hotel stationery.

 

I don’t know what I will do today, or any other day for the rest of my life. A life that I had thought I would live with Peter, an ephemeral dream that has been torn away irrevocably from us now. I know that in practical terms, I must weather the murder investigation and then take things as they come. I know I must begin the process of healing sometime, but the grievous wound of Peter’s death is going to take centuries to heal, if ever. It is too soon to think about healing. Right now, the only thing I can do is grit my teeth and try and bear the pain that threatens to overwhelm me with every breath I take. How can I still be breathing, when he is not?

 

Going through the little routine tasks of the morning helps calm my nerves slightly. I shave, take a shower, eat an apple, drink my coffee. There is a much smaller item in the newspaper about the murder today, mentioning simply that there is to be a memorial service for Peter Smith-Kingsley at the Pieta in Venice that afternoon, where his students are to perform pieces he had taught them. I fold the paper carefully and put it away.

 

The telephone rings, and I answer it automatically.

 

“Hello?”

“Mr Greenleaf? There is a telephone call for you from Rome. A Miss Marge Sherwood. Shall I put her through?”

The icy cold feeling returns to my veins again, and it is a moment before I can reply. “No. No. Please tell her I’m unavailable, and take a message.”

“Very good, sir.” Click.

 

Marge. I hadn’t thought about her in what seemed like forever, and now here she was again, pursuing Dickie. She must have seen the newspaper reports and traced Dickie to the hotel. What if she turns up in Athens? That would ruin Dickie’s plans to upstage me. It could actually work to my advantage.

 

I go downstairs to the reception to collect Marge’s message. It consists only of three words: “Call me. Please.” There is a telephone number for Rome.

 

I walk out onto the street and find a small café with an enclosed telephone booth. I dial Marge’s number. A maid answers, of course. I ask for Marge and hold my breath, waiting.

 

“Dickie? Is that you?” She sounds frantic.

“Marge, listen. It’s me, Tom.”

“Tom?” Her voice is blank, uncomprehending. “Tom? How did you get this number? I heard about Peter. I can’t believe it I just can’t. Where’s Dickie?”

“Marge, listen to me. I got the number from Dickie just now. Marge, you have to listen to me very carefully. Dickie’s insane. He killed Peter.”

“Tom, what --? Dickie killed Peter? How is that possible?”

“I tried to tell you, Marge. He is a cold-blooded killer without a conscience. He killed Peter, he killed Freddie, and he would have killed me if he wasn’t intent on trying to frame me for their deaths.”

“I -- I don’t know what to believe. Why… why would Dickie want to hurt Peter? They were friends.”

“To hurt me, Marge. He killed Peter to hurt me. You knew about Peter and me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, god. Yes, you and Peter… He told me. He was so happy that you… Oh, god. I can’t believe he’s gone. He was… he was my closest friend.” Her voice breaks, and it is all I can do to keep from breaking down, too.

“Marge, listen. Can you get down here? I don’t know what Dickie’s intentions are, but he’s got everyone convinced that I’m Dickie Greenleaf. You have to help me, Marge.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Tom. But I’m coming to Athens,” she says determinedly. “I have to see for myself what’s going on.”

 

I hang up after arranging to meet Marge at the airport later that evening. I go back to my room, having no desire to walk around Athens without Peter by my side. As I enter the room, the swaying curtain at the French window leading to the private terrace catches my eye. Surely I had shut that window before I left? I whip the curtain aside and step out onto the terrace, but there is no one in sight.

 

My stomach rumbles and I order a sandwich from room service, settling down in an armchair with Peter’s sonata. I can hear the notes in my head as I read through the pages. The piece is perfect, whole except for an incomplete interlude. I remember Peter agonizing over that section, composing and recomposing it an infinite number of times. He had never managed to be satisfied with it, and now it would remain unfinished forever.

 

He is sitting at the piano in a cloud of cigarette smoke, his shoulders slumped wearily. “Peter, why don’t you take a break? Eat something. You’ve been at it all day.” He turns distractedly to me, his hair rumpled from all the times he has run his fingers through it in frustration. “I can’t get it done, Tom. It’s right there, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just out of reach.” He sighs and shuts the lid of the piano, resting his forehead on it tiredly. I hate to see him so despondent. “You’ll do it, Peter. I know you will.” I stand behind him and squeeze his shoulders. He laughs briefly, humourlessly. “Well, it’s good that at least one of us knows it.” I start massaging his shoulders and he moans softly as I work the muscles in his shoulders and back with my hands. “That feels so good, Tom.” I kiss his shoulder and continue my slow kneading, trying to work the tension out of his body. He rests his head on his folded arms, sighing in pleasure. “What would I do without you, Tom?” “Probably run off with the tattooed guy from the carnival,” I say with a straight face, trying to get a laugh out of him. I am delighted when he chuckles in response. He turns around and gives me a brilliant smile. “You’re mad,” he laughs. “I know. And you’re beautiful.” I smooth his hair away from his face, smiling down at him, marvelling at his exquisiteness, at the boyish good looks that make him seem so heartbreakingly young and vulnerable when he looks at me the way he is looking at me now. “Now, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

 

I make him a cup of coffee and a sandwich and bring it to him at the piano. He is gazing at the closed lid, looking melancholy. “Eat,” I order gently, nudging the plate into his hands. He smiles slightly and takes the plate, but makes no move to pick up the sandwich. I pick it up myself and raise it to his lips. “Bite.” Smiling, he obeys. “Chew.” He grins. “Swallow.” He laughs out loud, the sound sweeter to my ears than any piece of music can be, and takes the sandwich from my hand. “Now, just listen.” I open his score and push back the lid of the piano. I play his piece as he listens quietly. He winces when I reach the unsatisfactory interlude, but does not interrupt me. By the time I finish, I am so moved by the lingering melody that my eyes are wet. I turn to him as he traces the outlines of my fingers gently with his fingertips. “You play so beautifully, Tom.” “And I would give my life to be able to compose music like you do, Peter,” I say simply. He smiles fondly at me. “Your life’s worth far more than my music, Tom.” He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, then pulls me into his arms and kisses me deeply, leisurely, indulgently. We smile at each other as we break apart, both a little breathless. “Shall I play it again? I’d like to.” He nods and takes up his folder, making notes to himself and working a little more on the interlude and other sections, sometimes asking me to repeat a section or play it a little differently. I obey happily, delighted to be able to help him like this.

 

A knock at the door startles me from my reverie. It is a waiter with my sandwich. The food looks suddenly unappetizing, but I know I must eat to keep my strength up. I have only eaten one apple in over twenty-four hours. I imagine that he is beside me, coaxing me to eat as I had once coaxed him. I go over his notes again as I eat, wondering if I can somehow finish the piece for him. I can certainly try, and it will be something to do that will help me keep the grief and the insanity at bay. A little comforted at the thought of doing something constructive to help Peter, I wash down my sandwich with the remains of my coffee. It’s getting to be time to leave for the airport, and I put the folder away carefully before leaving the room.

3.

Where am I? I feel as if I am floating, and my numbed body is feeling stirrings of cold wetness. I am enveloped in something soft, fluid, crushed by its weight, drowning in it. I am drowning. Before the thought can register, my mouth opens and a rush of water enters my throat. I try to cough but I am surrounded by water and it is making its way into my nose and mouth, killing me. It takes every ounce of my strength to force myself to stop trying to breathe, to hold on to what little air is left in my lungs.

 

The weight around my ankles is pulling me deeper and deeper towards the floor of the ocean. My hands struggle with the ropes around them. Fortunately I had managed to loosen them earlier, and now they slip off easily enough. I manage to slip out of the rest of the ropes around my chest and arms, but my feet are a different matter altogether. My chest is burning from lack of air, my brain pounding with the need for oxygen. The sea bed is not very far down so close to the harbour, and I feel my body touch the bottom as I land beside the vile sandbag. My stiff, cold fingers pull desperately at the knots of rope binding my feet. The accursed rope will not give. I try to undo the knots as calmly as possible, knowing that tugging on them will only make them tighter. Just when I think I cannot endure the lack of air anymore, the rope falls free.

 

I kick out as strongly as possible with my legs, my lungs hurting frightfully, almost blacking out now. I keep swimming. I cannot see a thing in the inky blackness. Am I moving upwards? Am I only moving further into the blackness? My lungs refuse to believe that they cannot have air, and I cannot help myself from taking another great gulp of water. And finally, mercifully, I feel welcoming darkness take its hold on me.

 

The warm water feels awfully pleasant as it cascades down my back, and I lean my forehead against the wall and close my eyes as the shower drains away the tiredness of the day. Not that rehearsals are ever less than a joy, but my body often feels drained after a day spent with several continuous hours in the organ loft at the Pieta. It is my home away from home, even more so than the welcoming department at the University of Venice. I had an early morning lecture today on baroque forms. It was a good class, the students bright and responsive first thing in the morning. After class, I dropped by at Tom’s place to give him a box of freshly baked doughnuts that I’d picked up on the way. I’ll never get used to American breakfasts, but he seems to like doughnuts.

 

As I turn off the shower there is a crash from the kitchen, and I grin to myself. Tom has insisted on making us dinner tonight. “Are you okay?” I call out as I step out of the tub and look around for my towel, still smiling. It is a long time since I’ve heard someone else moving around in my home, and I like the feeling.

 

There is a knock at the bathroom door, and I open it slightly. Tom holds out my towel, keeping his eyes averted. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, nothing broke. I only dropped the saucepan. Thought you might need this.” I take the towel from him, smiling at his nervousness, opening the door a little more. His breath catches sharply as he turns to me and then quickly looks away again. “It’s okay, Tom,” I say gently. I reach out and frame his cheek with my damp hand, leaning in to press my lips quickly against his. He moans softly at my touch. I smile at him and begin drying myself with the towel. When I move the towel to my head, he takes it from my hand and begins drying my hair himself. I sit down at the edge of my bed and allow him to rub the towel over my scalp and into my hair, loving the feel of his massaging fingers. The towel is soon forgotten as I grab his hand and pull him down onto the bed on top of me. He laughs with delight and we lose ourselves in each other for several moments, until we smell smoke from the kitchen. “My sauce!” he cries, and jumps out of bed. Laughing, I watch him run out of the room. He’s just so terribly adorable.

 

I am forced awake by my own choking, water pouring from my nose, mouth and ears. I feel the withdrawal of a pair of warm, wet lips from my own. Where am I? A face hovers above my own, a bronzed, beautiful face, surrounded by stars embedded in the indigo backdrop of the night sky. He has wet curly hair plastered to his forehead, and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. “Let it out. Let it out,” he coaxes urgently, his hand rubbing my back.

 

He helps me sit up as the last of the water drains out of my battered body. I am wet and shivering, unable to speak. I cannot believe I can breathe again. I concentrate on breathing, taking in sweet breaths of the fresh night air. I am on the deck of a small fishing boat. “You have to get out of those wet clothes, or you will freeze to death. Come below.” He helps me to my feet with his arm around my waist, and leads me below deck.

 

There are two bunk beds along the walls, and two more men in the small cabin. One is lying on a bunk and the other is sitting beside him. As my thoughts gain some semblance of coherence, I realize that the man on the bunk is grievously wounded. A cloth has been wrapped around his head as a rough bandage, but blood is pouring freely from what seems to be an open wound on his head.

 

My rescuer helps me take off my dripping clothes. I feel his hands around my waist, undoing my belt and trousers. Then he gently raises my arms above my head and pulls off my sweater. I am too exhausted to be embarrassed by my nakedness, and allow him to wipe me thoroughly with a towel. He wraps me securely in a couple of blankets, and pours me a cup of strong black coffee from a thermos. Then he leaves me to go to his companions.

 

They speak softly in Greek, and I can make out nothing of what they are saying. The man on the bunk has fallen still now, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. “He had an accident,” my rescuer says quietly to me by way of explanation.

 

“I’m sorry.” I am surprised to find that I can speak. His companion murmurs something and disappears upstairs.

 

“You are British,” my companion says. I nod. “I had an accident, too. If you hadn’t found me…”

 

“You were floating face down in the water. We thought you were dead. I’m Andreas.” He reaches out his hand and I shake it. “Peter.”

 

“Peter, I will not ask what you were doing face down in the water. But from the marks around your wrists and ankles, I can guess that you weren’t diving for pleasure.”

 

I take another warming sip of coffee. I have no idea what to say.

 

“We are fishermen, Peter. It would not do for us to be caught in a police investigation.”

 

“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I won’t involve you. I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

 

“We should reach the shore soon. Are you well enough to find your way home? Where are you from?”

 

“I’m from Venice. Andreas, can I stay with you for a while? My life is in danger.”

 

He scrutinizes me with his impenetrable blue eyes. “Yes. You can. But no police, okay? They have no care for people like us.”

 

I nod. “No police. No one. Thank you.”

 

“No need for thanks.” He turns back to his wounded friend, adjusting the bandage. “Adriano is dying. We thought we could get him back to the shore in time, but I am afraid he will be dead by the time we get him to a hospital.”

 

“Can I take a look at him? I have a bit of medical training.” I start to stand, but the blankets around me are impeding my movements.

 

“Here.” He hands me a pair of corduroy trousers from a hook on the wall, and I slip them on. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders cowboy style to keep it from slipping off, and sit down beside the wounded man. I gently turn his head so that I can look more closely at the wound. “Do you have another cloth I can use as padding?” Andreas nods and hands me a clean, worn shirt. I tear off a square piece, fold it into a pad and press it against the wound. “Hold that there.” Andreas does as asked and I wrap the original bandage tightly against the fisherman’s head to hold the padding in place. I hope that will stop the bleeding for the time being, although I can tell that Andreas is probably right; his friend seems to be on the verge of dying.

 

“Are you a doctor?”

 

“No. But I helped out at a hospital during the war.”

 

He looks at me in surprise. “The Second World War? You don’t look old enough for that.”

 

“I was seventeen. Wanted to do something to help.”

 

He nods in understanding. “I’d better help Jonas bring her in. You should try and rest a while, recover your strength.”

 

The war. I had found it mystifying, unable to understand how a world that called itself civilized had agreed so readily to participate in such gruesome, horrendous warfare. When our house was destroyed in a blitzkrieg my parents left London to hole themselves up in the family castle in Ireland, but I could not bring myself to go with them. I started living at St Anthony’s Hospital, sleeping in the corridors by night like scores of other refugees, and helping to tend to patients in the wards by day. Most of them were not soldiers but civilians who had been caught in the frequent bombardments. For the first time, I began to understand the true horror of what human beings could do to each other. I may have lost my sanity if it had not been for Anna.

 

Anna was the head nurse, tall, black-haired, British-Indian, more than a decade older than I was. When I had returned home from boarding school that summer, it was the end of years of abuse at a homophobic school where I had repeatedly been taunted for being ‘queer’ in my ways. I did not fully understand my sexuality and was drawn irresistibly to Anna, to her sensible ways, to the determined, stoic manner in which she braved the worst that the war had to offer. I had had sexual encounters with boys of my age at school, but never with anyone like Anna. It was a long time before she gave in to my attentions, and it was only when I got to know the person behind the uniform that I understood why; she was gay as well. It was an incomparable, beautiful relationship, and we found comfort in each other at a time when the world was disintegrating around us and there was no promise of tomorrow, of a better world than the one in which we were living, in which we would probably die. In many ways, she was the one who helped me understand what I was, what I wanted to be. We had parted amicably after the war, and kept in touch through letters exchanged once or twice a year. Part of the reason I had been excited about going to Athens was because she lived there, and I would be meeting her again after more than a decade.

 

I wake up with a start, not sure how long I have been asleep. My waterlogged watch has long since stopped working. Adriano is no longer on his bunk.

 

I step out on deck to find that it is not yet dawn, and my fears are confirmed when I see Andreas and Jonas kneeling beside Adriano’s body on the deck, getting ready to wrap him in sheets. Adriano has no coat, and I offer my own as a tribute to someone whose deathbed I had sat beside, whose fate could so easily have been my own. Andreas takes the coat from me, silently squeezing my hand in appreciation.

 

Once Adriano is securely wrapped, Andreas sings a slow, haunting dirge I have heard before, ‘Eulogy for a Fisherman’. His voice is clear and strong, lilting even in its sadness. The song is in Greek but I can follow some of the lyrics.

 

He won't sit on the riverbank anymore

He won't tell any more fisherman's tales

He won't cast his fly again

And though his creel may be empty

Our eyes today are filled with tears.

 

Jonas joins him during the refrain. I stand a little behind them as Adriano’s companions finish the simple ceremony and gently lower his body into the sea.

 

Jonas disappears below deck after the funeral. “They were brothers,” Adriano says simply. He offers me a cigarette and we sit side by side on the deck. “He died before we could bring her in,” he says. He sighs heavily, and points to the tallest mast on the boat. “He fell from there. He was trying to fix the sail.”

 

“I’m sorry, Andreas.”

 

“Thank you, Peter. He was a good friend.”

 

We sit quietly for a while. “How are you feeling now?” he asks finally.

 

“I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

 

He smiles slightly. “I’m happy we were there to help. You seem like a good man, Peter.”

 

I don’t know what to say to that, and take a slow drag of the strong, flavourful cigarette.

 

“What will you do now?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe lie low for the day. I have a friend who may be able to help me, but I don’t want to risk visiting her before nightfall.”

 

He nods. “That is good thinking, Peter. You are most welcome to spend the day on my boat. I have nowhere else to offer you. This is where I live and work.”

 

I assure him that his offer is more than generous. He gets up to make coffee, and to check on Jonas. I want to help, but he insists that I remain on deck. “You need to recover your strength, my friend.”

 

I gaze out at the sky which is beginning to show faint signs of the slowly approaching dawn, and think for the first time since my ‘accident’ about Tom. I wonder where he is now, whether he is searching for me, whether Dickie has gotten to him too. That seems unlikely, since Dickie had allowed him to disembark unharmed from the Hellenes. I am convinced of my love for Tom, but for the moment, I am unable to consider contacting him. The most obvious reason is that staying hidden and letting Dickie think I am dead will give me the perfect opportunity to try and discover what he is planning.

 

Also, I cannot deny that I have yet to reconcile myself to the fact that Tom is a killer. I had accepted him for who he was from the moment I had met him, had allowed my feelings for him to interfere with my judgement, even after Marge had insistently and repeatedly warned me to be careful. Now that I know the truth, I still cannot discount how I feel about him. Perhaps it is something to do with my experiences during the war, but Tom’s actions still seem slightly more understandable than the mindless killings I had witnessed in my extreme youth.

 

Andreas and Jonas need to sleep after their night-long vigil, and I spend the day on the deck while they are asleep below deck. I have little to do, and do not want to get off the boat and risk being seen. I find a pencil and notepad in the small captain’s cabin, and I spend the morning attempting to put down what I can remember of the sonata I had been working on. There is woefully little that I can recall, and I am sick at heart at the thought of all the work I have lost.

 

Andreas emerges from below deck around lunchtime, and shares some bread and cheese with me. We wash it down with some of Andreas’ home-brewed retsina. As I finish my glass of the strong, sweet wine, I remember something from yesterday.

 

Andreas listens carefully as I tell him that someone may have left a message for me at the harbour master’s office. He immediately offers to check, but I am reluctant to let him go. “What if there’s a police investigation? I don’t want to risk you getting involved.”

 

He shrugs off my misgivings. “It’s no problem. The authorities can’t tell one fisherman from another. They’ll never be able to identify me.”

 

He is back soon enough, bearing Tom’s note. “What happened?” I ask. “Oh, it was easy. I just told them that a tourist called Peter had asked me to check if there was a message for him. They wanted your last name, but I said I couldn’t recall it. It was a common story. They are used to foreign tourists hiring our boats. Many of us make a living out of it during the holiday season. That’s how I learnt English, too.”

 

“My name is Peter Smith-Kingsley,” I tell him. He smiles warmly and claps me on the back. “I already know. It was on your letter, remember? But thanks for telling me.” We both start laughing.

 

We are joined in the evening by Andreas’ girlfriend Elene, a spirited young woman with long blonde curls. Her presence seems to cheer Jonas up as well, and we have a pleasant evening meal on the beach. Andreas and Jonas end up getting very drunk on the retsina and recount tales of their many adventures with Adriano.

 

When it is well past sunset, I say goodbye to my new friends and set off in search of Anna’s residence. Andreas hugs me warmly before I leave, and tell me that I am welcome back at any time.

 

Anna is taking the train to Edinburgh that afternoon, and I am at the railway station to see her off. We are both amazed at how normal the world seems, so soon after the war; people laughing, talking, drinking tea, hugging, saying goodbye. Anna thinks it has something to do with the resilience of the human spirit.

 

She is going to teach in a nursing school in Edinburgh, and I have been accepted at a music school in Paris, and we are well aware that this may be the last time we meet. We sit in a little café at the station at a small table next to the window. She reaches out and squeezes my hand warmly, her soft dark hair framing her face. She is wearing a navy skirt with a matching coat and beret, and a white cashmere sweater that has a small, glittering brooch pinned to it, the only piece of jewellery she is wearing. She looks so fresh and sparkling, defined so clearly against the blur of everything else around her.

 

“This is for you.” I take out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper from my jacket pocket, and slide it across the table towards her. She throws me a look of delighted surprise, and unwraps it carefully. It is a cloth-bound copy of Herodotus’ Histories, and inside it is a bookmark that I have made myself, which has a simple sketch of Anna, smiling, her hair loose around her shoulders. “My lovely Peter,” she whispers, her eyes shining with tears. “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. I hope the world is good to you.” “If it isn’t, I can always look you up.” I grin at her, and she laughs heartily.

 

At the platform, she gives me a last hug as the whistle sounds. “Take care of yourself, Peter Smith-Kingsley.” She gets on the train, slips off her beret and leans down to put it on my head, tilting it at a jaunty angle, and we share a final laugh as the train begins to move.

 

I ring the doorbell and wait at her doorstep. It is a minute before the door opens and she is silhouetted in the door frame. Her hair is shorter than I remember it, but her face is almost exactly the same. “Who’s there?” Her voice is as clear and refined as before, a little more husky now.

 

I step into the light. “Hello, Anna.”

 

“Oh my god.” She lets out a shriek of delight and throws her arms around me, and I hug her back warmly. She leans back and holds me at arm’s length. “Look at you, all grown up! I don’t believe it!”

 

“Anna, is everything okay?” A woman’s voice sounds from behind her. “I heard you cry out.”

 

“Everything’s fine!” Anna calls out over her shoulder. “It’s an old friend. Come in, silly, why are you still standing there?” Laughing, she grabs my arm and pulls me in. The first thing I see is a petite woman with strawberry blonde hair and a look of amused confusion on her face. Anna introduces us. “This is the legendary Peter Smith-Kingsley I told you about. Peter, this is Simone Chenard.”

 

“Peter. Of course. I’ve heard so much about you.” Simone hugs me affectionately. “Good things, I hope,” I say lightly, looking over Simone’s head at Anna. She seems radiantly happy. “Very good things,” Simone says with raised eyebrows, and I like her immediately.

 

“I’m sorry to call on you unannounced at this hour,” I say. “Shall I come back tomorrow?”

 

“Don’t be so completely daft,” Anna says. “Although I am a bit concerned that you’ve shown up at this hour, coatless, without any luggage, looking like a pirate. And smelling like one too, I dare say.” I reach up to feel the two days’ worth of stubble on my face, and realise what I must look like. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

 

“Well, no. I may need your help, if you’re up for it.”

 

“Ah, and you have a pirate’s tale to tell as well!” She laughs. “First things first. You need to get cleaned up, and those clothes need to be burnt.”

 

“Well, okay. But you are not going to talk me into wearing a skirt.”

 

Simone chuckles. “We’ll find you something to wear. Let me run you a hot bath.”

 

“Thanks, Simone.” Anna sits down on the comfortable, squashy sofa and pats the seat next to her. “Sit.” I obey, suddenly weary, feeling stupidly close to tears. “What is it?” she asks quietly. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, but I’m really worried.”

 

“I… Someone tried to kill me, Anna. A friend.” She gazes at me with wide, horrified eyes.

 

“You need a drink,” Simone says from the doorway. She has heard what I said, and I see the same appalled sympathy on her face as there is on Anna’s. She pours out some cognac for all of us, and over the next thirty minutes, I relate almost everything that happened since Tom and I boarded the Hellenes. I leave out Tom’s part in the tale, referring to him only as my travelling companion and close friend.

 

“So, let me see if I have this right,” Anna frowns as I finish my story. She lights a cigarette before she continues. “This Dickie chap was blackmailing you earlier, was then assumed dead, and finally decided to finish you off so you couldn’t tell anyone he was alive.”

 

“That’s about it, yes.”

 

“How does a musician get himself entangled in an unholy mess like this?”

 

I laugh. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

 

“And this Tom person you spoke of. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like he’s more than a friend.”

 

“He is.”

 

“Is it serious?” She is looking at me shrewdly.

 

“He… Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

“For-better-or-for-worse kind of serious?”

 

“That’s exactly how I’d describe it.” You don’t know the half of it, Anna.

 

“Well, then,” Simone leans forwards, her hair falling over her face. “Shouldn’t you let him know you’re safe?”

 

“I want to, Simone. But I have to find evidence against Dickie, and I can’t do that if anyone knows I’m alive. He’d cover his tracks immediately.”

 

“Hmmm.” Anna looks at me thoughtfully, then gives me a sudden hug. “We’ll work it out, Peter. I’m with you, whatever you decide to do. This Dickie sounds like a really nasty piece of work. How dare he treat you so viciously?”

Simone reaches out and puts her hand over mine. “You’re very, very brave, Peter. To be bound and thrown into the sea like that… To survive that… You’re a remarkable person. I see now what Anna meant.”

 

“I told you he was astonishing,” Anna says, smiling at me. I look from one to the other. “Thank you, both of you. I don’t know what I’d have done if…” I break off, unable to say any more.

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what you’ll do now,” Anna says gently, running her fingers through my disheveled hair. “You’ll take a hot bath while we fix something to eat, and then you’ll get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, you’ll work out how to get the bastard that did this to you.”

 

When I awake the next morning, I am aching for Tom. My hand reaches out automatically to the empty space on the bed next to me before I remember that he is not there. He must be worried sick by now. I push the guilt to the back of my mind, pull on the dressing gown that Anna had given me last night, and go to take a shower.

 

Anna knocks on the door to hand me a fresh towel, and I feel a pang of déjà vu. After my shower, I put on the dressing gown again and go to the kitchen, where Anna is buttering some toast. She smiles and hands me a cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”

 

I sit at the dining table and stare glumly at my tea. “Like an absolute sod. About Tom, I mean.”

 

“Ah.” She puts a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me, with a little jar of marmalade. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

 

“Thanks, Anna. Where’s Simone?”

 

“Gone to arrange your disguise,” she smiles. I raise my eyebrows at her as I bite into my toast. “She’s got a theatre group. Directs plays,” she explains, smiling. “We thought you needed something that would help you get out of the house. So you wouldn’t sit around moping,” she teases gently, and I cannot help grinning back at her.

 

“You should take a look at this,” she says, her smile fading as she pushes a newspaper towards me. I am stunned to find myself looking down at my own face. British professor and musician brutally slain.

 

“Adriano,” I whisper as understanding hits me. “He was wearing my coat.”

 

Anna sighs, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “You seem to be getting entangled deeper and deeper in this mess, sweetie. What are you going to do?”

 

“Nothing, I suppose. Try and make the most of it, while it lasts. My coat had my initials sewn into the lining. But surely they’d base their identification of a body on more than that?”

 

“They must have. Someone must have identified the face as well.”

 

“But -- who would do that? Dickie? Or Tom?”

 

“I don’t know, Peter. But you’ve got to be careful. If someone did identify that body as yours, then there’s someone out there who probably knows you’re alive. Someone dangerous, most probably.”

 

Simone arrives shortly thereafter, grinning widely. She hands me an air force uniform. “Your new threads, Air Commodore.”

 

I laugh. “Why the uniform?”

 

“Because people are far less likely to notice the person behind a uniform. I learnt that during the war,” Anna says softly.

 

“Go on, put it on,” Simone urges. “I checked your size from the clothes you were wearing. It should fit.”

 

I leave the cap on the table and head back to the guest room with the rest of the uniform. When I emerge again, both Anna and Simone squeal with delight.

 

“Oh my god!” Anna cries out. “You’re gorgeous!”

 

“Almost delectable enough to make a lesbian move over to the other side,” Simone grins, and I blush under their appraising gazes.

 

“You’ll need a bit more work to disguise that beautiful face,” Simone grins. Over the next twenty minutes, she works on my face, adding a thin moustache and a French beard. “There you go,” she says, adjusting the cap on my head and handing me a small mirror. I can barely recognize myself.

 

The first thing I do is head to the Excelsior hotel. My uniform gives me an air of authority, and the clerk at the reception quickly confirms that both Thomas Ripley and Richard Greenleaf are registered at the hotel. “It’s funny you should ask about them, Commodore,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “There was an… incident… yesterday morning, involving Mr Ripley and Mr Greenleaf.”

 

“What incident was that?”

 

“Well, Mr Greenleaf attacked Mr Ripley rather fervently. He was apprehended by the police.”

 

“Was Mr Ripley hurt?”

 

“Not much, sir. Just a few scratches.”

 

“I see.” It occurs to me then that Tom and Dickie may have registered under each other’s names, but I have no way of being sure. “Can you give me a room?” I have no desire to stay at the hotel, but taking a room there will ensure that I can come and go as I please, without any questions asked. Of course, both Tom and Dickie are sure to recognise me if they see me, disguise or no disguise. But it should keep people from identifying me based on my photograph in the newspaper. As the clerk is making my registration, I glance quickly at the entries and note both Tom’s and Dickie’s room numbers.

 

Telling the clerk that my luggage will be arriving later, I let the bellboy escort me to my room. After he is gone, I call the reception. “Could you please send someone from room service to room 304?” Thomas Ripley is registered at 304, which is on the same floor as mine. I slip out into the corridor and stand facing the window at the end of the corridor, lighting a cigarette. 304 is at the other end of the corridor, but I will be able to catch a glimpse of whoever opens the door.

 

A young waiter appears from the staircase next to me, takes in my appearance, and nods respectfully before knocking on 304’s door. I rest my elbow on the windowsill and turn slightly, making sure my cap is well over my forehead. I don’t even need to catch sight of the bronzed face to confirm the identity of the man in 304, since Dickie’s voice is unmistakable as he grumpily sends the waiter away. So he is Mr Ripley. Which means that Tom is under arrest, the poor lad. It is not difficult to imagine why he must have attacked Dickie.

 

It is easy enough to bribe Nikolaus, the bellboy, into informing me whenever Mr Greenleaf makes an appearance, or when Mr Ripley leaves the building. My uniform and appearance add credibility to my story. Both individuals are the subjects of a covert Air Force investigation, and the bellboy would be doing a great service to his country by cooperating with me. He seems terribly excited and wholly eager to help.

 

Nikolaus informs me later that evening that Mr Greenleaf has returned to his room, and that he and Mr Ripley are both in Greenleaf’s room at the moment. I am immensely relieved to hear that Tom is no longer in police custody, not having realised how worried I had been about him. Nikolaus agrees to letting me into Dickie’s (‘Mr Ripley’s’) room while he is with Tom, and I slip in quickly. I find that my own trunk is there as well as Dickie’s own. I search quickly through the room, but there seems to be nothing of interest.

 

I hear a key turn in the door, and there is nothing for it but to escape to the balcony. I look into the room through a chink in the curtains. Dickie comes in, staggering slightly, apparently drunk. He collapses on the bed. I look over the railing. It is far too much of a drop to the ground from the third floor, but there are pipes and creepers along the wall which may help me make my descent to the floor below. Tom’s room, 203, is next to the room directly beneath Dickie’s.

 

I have never had the opportunity to engage in covert acrobatics before, but it is surprisingly easy to shimmy down a pipe, holding on to the creepers for support. I know I should climb all the way down, but I cannot resist stopping beside Tom’s balcony. The curtains are open and I can see him lying on the floor, apparently fast asleep. I swallow a tinge of exasperation at the thought that he has been drinking with Dickie.

 

And he is holding my precious brown folder.

 

That does it. I climb carefully onto the balcony, and slip into Tom’s room. He does not stir. I ease the folder gently from his clutching fingers, and look quickly through it. It seems intact, thank goodness. I sit beside Tom on the floor and look over my beloved music, knowing that to take it with me would arouse Tom’s suspicions immediately.

 

Inside the folder, I find a small scrap torn from a newspaper. I realise it is a part of my photograph in the paper. Indescribably moved, I look down at Tom’s sleeping face. Even in his sleep, his face looks ravaged by grief, streaked with tears. “Peter,” he moans suddenly, and I freeze. He rolls over and hugs my arm, and I relax as I realise he is talking in his sleep. I gently push a stray strand of blond hair away from his face, and cannot resist brushing my lips against his forehead. He is still holding on to my arm, and I slip my other arm around him, putting my head on the floor beside his. For a few minutes I just lie next to him, looking at him, holding him. His head slips into its familiar place in the crook of my arm, and he sighs in his sleep. It cannot be clearer that he is devastated by my apparent death, and that I am in his thoughts even in his sleep. “Peter.” He moans my name again, clutching tightly to my arm. “I’m sorry, Tom,” I whisper into his ear, as quietly as I can. I gently slip my arm from his grasp and replace it with my folder, and his arms tighten over it.

 

I hate to leave him there on the floor, but there is no way I can move him to the bed without waking him. His neck is uncomfortably bent, and I cannot help rolling up his discarded jacket and slipping it beneath his head. Then I slip quietly out of the room, turning back at the door to look at him one last time as he lies asleep, tormented. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry for doing this to you, Tom.

 

I call Anna to let her know that I’m okay, and spend a fitful night in my hotel room. It seems absurd that Tom and I are so close and yet so far apart, that he is so tortured by sorrow, and that it is my fault. Perhaps I am subconsciously intending to punish him for almost taking my life. I had not thought I would have it in me to be so cruel.

 

In the morning, the ever-resourceful Nikolaus tells me that Mr Greenleaf has gone out. He lets me back into Tom’s room. I look around and wonder if I should leave Tom a note, something, anything, to let him know that I am alive. But it is too risky, given Dickie’s proximity. I wonder if I have enough time to take my score out and make a copy of it, but he is back before I can even pick it up.

 

I just about manage to unlock the door to the terrace and launch myself over the railing before he comes in. He seems to have noticed the open door, and comes into the balcony. I remain hanging from the edge by my fingers, and fortunately for me, he does not look down. But there is no other way to get out of the situation than to climb back into the balcony and then make my way down the pipe.

 

Managing to find a foothold on a small ledge under the balcony, I raise myself slightly and peer cautiously over the edge. Tom is sitting with his back to the window, and there is no way I can climb back into the balcony without him noticing me. I notice that his head is bent over my folder, and my heart goes out to him. For a moment, I want nothing more than to call out to him, to end the charade and his distress. But I stay quiet, hanging there for the better part of an hour, grateful for my foothold. The balcony overlooks a small garden, and fortunately for me, there is no one there at the time who can look up and see an Air Commodore hanging from the edge of someone else’s balcony.

4.

‘How’s Tom?’ I give Peter a look over the rim of my glass as we sit at my dining table.

 

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. ‘Okay, I suppose.’ I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Okay, then. He’s not okay. I think he’s… falling apart.’

 

‘What are you going to do about it?’

 

‘What can I do, Anna?’

 

‘Tell him. Tell him you’re safe. Before he does something stupid.’

 

‘I’m keeping an eye on him.’

 

‘How do you know where he is right now?’

 

‘Nikolaus told me he went to the airport to pick up Marge. I’m assuming he’s safe with her for the moment.’

 

I sigh. ‘She’s not the one he’s in love with, is she.’

 

‘I hate myself for doing this.’ Dear Peter. Looking at him now, dashing in his uniform, his face so ravaged by what he is doing, I realise how much I love this boy.

 

‘Then don’t.’ I put my hand over his. ‘Don’t do it, Peter. It’s not who you are.’

 

He looks at me and I am certain I can see his heart breaking. ‘You really… this Tom… he really means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’

 

Peter nods silently, looking helplessly at me, his hazel eyes wet. ‘Oh, Peter.’ I go to him and pull him close, hold him tightly. He leans against me for a moment, his breathing uneven. Then he composes himself and pulls back. ‘Thanks, Anna.’

 

I cup his face with the palm of my hand. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He nods. ‘At least let me check on him for you.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, startled.

 

‘Well,’ I try to articulate the plan that’s forming in my head. ‘The papers said you two knew each other. You and Dickie Greenleaf, I mean. I could… offer my condolences. Did you ever tell him about us?’

 

He nods. ‘Thanks, Anna. It would be… really nice of you to check on him for me. But meet him in a public place, okay? There’s too much danger lurking around us at the moment.’

 

‘Miss Stewart? Anna Stewart?’ I look up from the little corner table in the restaurant to see a young man looking down at me. ‘Dickie Greenleaf?’

 

He hesitates a moment, then holds out his hand. ‘They told me at the reception that you wanted to see me?’

 

‘Yes. Won’t you sit down?’ I study him carefully as he sits down opposite me. He has a nice face, a handsome face, but there is too much worry and devastation in it for his good looks to be obvious. He looks at me expectantly.

 

‘I’m… I was a friend of Peter’s.’ He looks stunned. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I read in the papers that you knew him. I just wanted to… offer my condolences.’

 

‘You’re Anna,’ he whispers.

 

‘Did he mention me? I was looking forward to meeting him before his concert… it’s all been a terrible shock.’

 

‘Yes, he said… he said you worked together during… during the war.’ Tom’s face is white, his hands clenched. My heart goes out to the boy. I signal the waiter for a drink. Tom says nothing until the waiter sets his drink down in front of him. He drains half of it quickly.

 

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I say as gently as possible. ‘You must have been very close to him.’

 

‘I… yes… yes, I was. He…’ Tom breaks off, looks away. This is ridiculous, I think to myself. It’s obvious that these two boys cannot live without each other. This shouldn’t be happening.

 

‘They won’t even let me see him,’ he whispers.

 

‘You weren’t the one who identified his body, then?’ He winces, shakes his head silently.

 

‘Perhaps it was your other friend… Tom Ripley?’

 

‘What do you know about Tom?’ he whispers.

 

‘Well… only what Peter told me.’

 

‘What did he say?’

 

I hesitate, and he puts his hand on mine. ‘Please.’

 

I cannot keep lying to this distraught boy. Not about everything. ‘You’re Tom, aren’t you?’

 

He looks at me, stunned. ‘Why do you say that?’

 

‘I don’t know. Woman’s intuition? You’re Tom, and you’re in trouble.’

 

He is speechless. For a moment he can only stare at me. Then he looks away. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s gone, and nothing else matters.’

 

‘It may matter more than you think, Tom.’

 

‘What do you mean? How can you know all this?’

 

‘I can’t say too much, Tom. All I can tell you is that you must take care of yourself. Things may not be as bleak as they seem.’

 

He stares at me, and I am very moved by the sudden hope that flares in his very blue eyes. In that moment he is beautiful, transformed, and I can see the effect that Peter has on this young man. ‘Tell me what you know. Please,’ he begs.

 

‘He said… he said you meant more to him than anyone else ever had. He… he loved you, Tom.’

 

Tom moans in agony and buries his face in his hands. ‘I couldn’t… I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him. And he saved me. From myself, from everything. He saved me, Anna,’ he chokes, his voice barely audible. For several moments, he stares at the young Greek pianist playing beside the bar. ‘I’m going to go mad.’

 

‘No, you aren’t,’ I say firmly. ‘If he was in your place now, would you want him to go to pieces?’

 

He stares at me, his beautiful eyes wet.

 

‘You’re right. He’s falling apart. He says he’s going to go mad.’ I keep my voice matter-of-fact as I look at Peter.

 

He groans and rests his forehead on his folded arms. I caress his hair gently, wishing there was something I could do for him. From across the room, Simone watches us both with concern.

 

‘Peter?’ she says tentatively. He looks up immediately. ‘Call him here. Dickie Greenleaf won’t know. From what Anna says, your Tom needs you. And from what I can see, you’re killing yourself.’

 

Peter shakes his head. ‘What if Dickie follows him?’

 

‘Maybe we can distract him. I don’t know.’ I am getting angrier than ever at this Dickie person. ‘We’ll do something. Anything. You must tell Tom, Peter.’ I remember something. ‘I almost forgot. Tom said Marge wasn’t on the flight, but when he called her place in Rome, they said she’d left for Athens.’

 

That distracts him. ‘What? That’s odd. Where could she be?’

 

‘Do you think Dickie got to her?’

 

‘I don’t know. I don’t see why he would. He seemed to be glad thinking he was rid of her.’

 

‘Get Tom here, Peter. Tell him. Before something really terrible happens and you never get the chance. He’s alone out there, he’s in agony, he may just do something that… that you might never be able to forgive yourself for.’ And to my very great surprise, Peter nods. He wipes his eyes quickly and gets to his feet with a sudden determination.

 

‘Mr Greenleaf, please,’ he says into the phone. Then he quickly hands it to me. ‘You’d better speak to him.’

 

‘Tom? It’s Anna.’

 

‘Hi, Anna.’ He sounds a little surprised, a lot in pain.

 

‘Are you okay?’

 

‘I -- yes. I was just -- yes, I’m okay.’

 

‘Are you alone, Tom?’

 

‘Yes, why?’

 

‘Listen, can you come over to my place? It’s important.’

 

‘Of course. What’s the address?’ I give it to him. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes,’ he promises.

 

I put down the phone and smile at Peter. ‘He’s on his way.’

 

Peter looks stricken. ‘He’s going to hate me.’

 

‘Don’t be silly. He’s going to die of happiness.’

 

He says nothing, but bites his lip. ‘It’s okay,’ Simone says gently. ‘You did the right thing. Even if he’s angry, he’ll come round. He won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.’ She makes him a drink and he sits at the table, not taking a single sip but clutching the glass tightly with his hands.

 

I touch his clasped hands. ‘Relax, Peter. It’s going to be fine.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Thanks, Anna. And you, Simone. I don’t know what I’d have done without you both.’

 

Before either of us can respond, the doorbell rings. Peter stands up quickly, almost spilling his drink. I squeeze his hands again and go to the door.

 

Tom still has that terribly haunted look in his eyes, but he attempts a smile. ‘Hello,’ he says quietly. I take his hand and lead him inside.

 

His eyes fall straight on Peter, and he blinks. A slightly puzzled frown crosses his forehead. Peter is frozen. Tom turns to me, helpless. ‘Can you -- can you see him, too?’

 

‘He’s here, Tom,’ I say gently. ‘He’s okay.’

 

Tom turns back to Peter. He takes a step forward and then his legs give way under him and he falls to his knees, clutching the sofa. In an instant Peter is kneeling next to him, his arms around him. ‘Oh, god,’ Tom gasps. ‘Oh, god.’ Then he cannot speak any more and great wracking sobs shake his body as he clutches Peter and cries as if… I can think of nothing I have felt that can even begin to compare to what he must be feeling. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tom.’ Peter is crying too, and the two of them cling to each other as if they will never let go. I feel a huge obstruction in my throat and look at Simone. Tears are flowing silently down her cheeks.

 

Tom

 

I step into Anna’s house and the first thing I see is Peter’s ghost. He seems so real that I can only keep staring at him for a moment. For some strange reason, I am imagining that he is wearing a military uniform. The light from the lamp catches his hair, and his face is heartbreakingly beautiful.

 

I turn helplessly to Anna, wondering if my imagination is real enough to be seen by others. ‘Can you -- can you see him, too?’

 

‘He’s here, Tom,’ she says very gently. ‘He’s okay.’

 

He’s here. He’s okay.

 

My mind is completely blank as I turn to look at him again. He hasn’t moved. If he’s real, why doesn’t he move? I try to move towards him, but the next moment, the ground gives way beneath my feet and I fall to the floor. Before I even feel the impact of my knees hitting the floor he is next to me, his arms wrapped around me.

 

Oh, god. Peter.

 

My vision is completely blurred, but I can smell him. That Peter smell that I love so much. He is clutching me to him and my arms are around him. He is saying over and over that he is sorry. I want to keep listening to his voice forever, but there is a great rushing sound in my ears, and a pounding blackness in my head.

 

Peter

 

Suddenly, Tom goes limp in my arms. ‘Tom?’ I say in alarm. ‘Tom!’

 

‘Get him on the sofa,’ Anna says quickly. I lift Tom in my arms and rest him down on the couch. ‘Here,’ Simone says, handing me a glass of something. My hands shaking, I raise Tom’s head and tilt the glass into his mouth. The fiery liquid trickles into his mouth and he splutters and coughs, his eyes flying open.

 

I frame his face with my hands. ‘Tom. Tom, are you okay?’

 

‘Peter,’ he whispers. ‘No, not again. Please, not again.’

 

‘Tom, it’s me. I’m here.’

 

‘No,’ he moans, turning his head away, burying his face in a cushion. ‘Not again. Please, I don’t want to dream any more. Please.’

 

‘Tom.’ I can barely say his name. I grab his wrists in my hands. ‘Tom, look at me. It’s me.’

 

‘No!’ Before I can do anything, he yanks one wrist away from my grasp and hits me squarely on the jaw. I am knocked back onto the floor.

 

He throws himself on top of me, his hands reaching for my throat. ‘Tom!’ I gasp, but his fingers are tightening with a death grip. ‘Go away, go away, go away! Leave me alone!’ he screams.

 

‘Tom, no!’ Anna cries in alarm, and it takes both her and Simone to grab his arms and pull him away from me. All three of them fall back on the floor as I struggle to sit up, coughing.

 

Tom clings to Anna, burying his face in her shoulder. ‘Make it stop. Please,’ he moans. ‘Tom, it’s okay. Calm down. Tom, it’s Peter. I swear it is.’

 

He raises his head and looks at me. Anna slowly lets go of him. He pulls away from her and crawls along the floor to me. His fingers reach out and touch my face wonderingly. My hand reaches up automatically to touch his, and our fingers, more sure of themselves than our minds, entwine in their familiar way.

 

Tom’s movements are very slow now, almost as if he is moving in slow motion. He rests his head against my chest and curls up on the floor next to me, his face buried in my shirt. I gently rest my other hand against the back of his head, and caress his hair. His hand tightens in mine and his other arm slips around my waist. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper against his hair. ‘Everything’s okay.’

 

Tom

 

It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

 

He is impossibly warm next to me. My senses are unbearably sharp. My mind has shut down. I can feel his hand in mine, I can feel my arm around his wonderfully solid form. I can feel his lips against my hair. I close my eyes and inhale his scent. ‘You said you’d never leave me.’ His arms tighten around me. ‘I won’t, Tom. I won’t. Never again. I promise. Never again.’

 

I lift my head and look at him in wonder. I know this can’t be happening. The world is far too cruel to give Peter back to me. But he smiles his Peter smile and I cannot help but press myself to him again, burying my face in his neck. ‘But… how? Dickie said that he… that he…’

 

‘He did try his best,’ Peter says softly, no malice at all in his voice.

 

‘He said he saw you… saw you drown. That he had a… had a sandbag tied to your ankles.’

 

‘He did.’ Peter squeezes my hand. ‘Guess it wasn’t my time.’

 

I disentangle him from my embrace and reach down to pull up the leg of his trousers. His bare ankle has a terrible purple bruise around it, the skin broken, and I inhale sharply.

 

I get up from the floor, unable to meet his eyes. I can see the quiet street outside Anna’s house from the window. But more clear is my own reflection on the glass. Monster. You tried to do that to him, too. You’re no better than Dickie. Worse, in fact. Far, far worse, for trying to hurt him when all he ever did was love you and accept you so completely.

 

‘Tom?’ He is behind me, but doesn’t touch me. I turn around, our eyes meeting. ‘I should go,’ I whisper.

 

‘What? Why?’ There is confusion and hurt on his face. I take a step back, away from him. ‘You’re better off without me.’ I cannot look him in the eyes now.

 

He laughs softly, humourlessly. ‘And you’re better off without me. And yet I can’t seem to stay away from you, even at the risk of hurting you.’

 

‘I’m better off -- what are you saying?’ I whisper fiercely. ‘You saved me. Without you I’m -- I’m nothing.’

 

‘That’s not true, Tom. You’re Tom Ripley, and you’re beautiful.’

 

‘I cannot be Tom Ripley without you,’ I say firmly.

 

He gazes at me for a long moment, his eyes silver-green in the moonlight. ‘Do you really want to leave?’

 

‘I saw your wounds and I… realised that… that I’m no better than Dickie.’

 

‘Don’t ever think that way, Tom.’

 

‘He… he loves you too.’

 

‘Yes, he told me as much,’ Peter says softly, his expression unreadable. ‘But he really did try to kill me, Tom. You didn’t. You stopped yourself.’

 

‘I… the thought was bad enough. I was… I was terribly scared. But I.. what I did was…’

‘It wasn’t easy to deal with, Tom. For either of us. But…’ He stops, and I hold my breath.

 

‘Maybe we just need some time,’ he says softly. ‘And besides, there’s still a lot to sort out. We need to get you safe. You can’t go on being Dickie Greenleaf.’

 

‘And after it’s over?’

 

‘After it’s over… maybe we’ll be able to sort things out between us.’

 

I have a terrible sensation that he is slipping through my fingers. ‘You just said…’ He looks at me, not saying anything, letting me find the words. ‘You just said… never again.’

 

He reaches out to touch my face gently. ‘I did, and I meant it. But…’

 

I hold his hand against my face. ‘But what?’

 

‘I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know if we can move past everything that’s happened.’

 

‘You mean you don’t know if you can ever forgive me.’

 

‘I mean I don’t know if you can forgive yourself.’

 

‘Peter, I…’ There is nothing to say. I find myself losing control again, not knowing how I can tell him about the horror of losing him once, of how unbearable the thought is of losing him again. I slide my arms around his waist and pull him to me. He allows me to draw him close, and kisses my forehead. I fall to my knees in front of him, my arms still wrapped around his waist, my face buried in his shirt. He holds me against him, his fingers slipping into my hair, kisses the top of my head. He frames my face with his hands, makes me look up at him. ‘I’m not letting you go if I can help it,’ he promises me.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night, jolted awake by another nightmare. I am in his bed, both of us fully dressed. ‘Tom?’ he murmurs, turning to me. ‘You okay?’ I want nothing more than to pull him close, but I dare not touch him. He sits up and puts his arm around me. ‘Another nightmare?’ he says gently. I turn to him helplessly, unable to tell him how difficult it is to have him so close, and yet be so far from him. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that,’ he says softly, and leans forward to brush his lips against mine.

 

‘Peter,’ I whisper. It feels so good just to be able to say his name. ‘Sshh,’ he says. ‘Don’t say anything.’

 

We don’t need to say anything more that night, and I sleep dreamlessly. When I awake he is still with me, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me. He opens his eyes and smiles at me. ‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘I hope I wasn’t out of line last night,’ he says, gently brushing my hair away from my forehead. I reach up and kiss him in response, and he moans with pleasure and snuggles into my embrace.

 

‘Good morning,’ Anna grins as we enter the kitchen together. ‘Breakfast?’

 

‘Yes, please,’ Peter says, grinning. I sit at the table and watch him as he helps Anna with toast and coffee. ‘How are you doing?’ Anna asks, looking over at me, smiling. ‘I’m great,’ I grin at her. She laughs. ‘I’m glad. You two idiots seem to have figured it out.’

 

‘Figured what out?’ Peter says, feigning innocence.

 

‘That you can’t be without each other,’ she says softly. Peter looks over at me and smiles. ‘I think we have. What do you say, Tom?’ he asks lightly. I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘I already knew.’ Peter laughs and sits down at the table with me.

 

Anna smiles at both of us. ‘I have a rehearsal to get to. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, okay?’ She hugs us both before leaving.

 

Peter reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine, leaving it there as he sips his coffee. I clutch it tightly, marvelling at the changes that have happened in the last few hours. All the desolation and grief has slipped away, although I still feel nervous, as if it will creep back in if I look away for too long.

 

Peter senses my mood. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks quietly. I shake my head, and smile at him. ‘Nothing. Everything… everything’s perfect. I’m just… I just need a little time to… to get over what I was feeling. About losing you.’

 

His hand tightens on mine. ‘I feel terrible about that, Tom. I’m so sorry.’

 

‘I know. Don’t be. You’re okay, and that’s the only thing that matters.’

 

‘I was there… that night when you were asleep on the floor.’

 

‘You put the jacket under my head?’ He nods. I remember the absolute desolation of that night. And he had been so close.

 

‘How did you get in?’

 

‘Through the window,’ he admits ruefully, and I laugh. ‘You cared that much,’ I say in delight.

 

‘Of course I did. I do,’ he says in surprise.

 

‘I’m sorry. I just haven’t… had that.’

 

He leans forward, his gaze holding mine. ‘You have it now, Tom. Don’t ever forget that.’

 

I take his face in my hands and cover his mouth with mine, and he allows me to ravish his mouth. After several moments he pulls back, breathless. ‘Let’s not get distracted,’ he grins. ‘We have work to do.’

 

‘Dickie.’

 

‘And Marge. I hope she’s okay.’

 

I knock on the door, hard.

 

Dickie opens the door, his hair tousled, yawning. ‘God, Ripley. It’s the middle of the night.’

 

‘It’s ten in the morning. Where’s Marge?’

 

‘I don’t know. Out.’

 

‘So she’s with you.’

 

‘Of course. What did you think she was here for -- a Ripley rainy day?’

 

I turn away, disgusted. ‘Where were you last night? Found another boyfriend, did you?’ he jeers. ‘Didn’t take you long to get over Peter, did it?’ I turn back to him, murder in my eyes, but he laughs and shuts the door.

 

I enter Peter’s room and slam the door behind me, my blood still boiling. ‘What happened?’ Peter asks calmly. He is sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette.

 

‘Nothing. Marge is with him. He just… pissed me off.’ I sit down next to him and put my arms around him, burying my face in his neck. He caresses the back of my neck, and I find myself calming down instantly. Nothing soothes me like his warm scent, his closeness.

 

He smiles at me when I finally pull back. ‘Better?’

 

‘God, yes.’ I take his hand, press my lips against his palm. ‘I didn’t actually see Marge. We’ll have to keep an eye out for her. But I think he might have taken her into confidence.’

 

‘I checked with Nikolaus. He says Dickie did come back last night with a blonde woman, and she went out alone this morning.’

 

‘So she’s safe.’

 

‘For the moment.’

 

‘What about you? Are you going to confront him?’

 

‘Yes. We need him to confess to being Dickie, and that he tried to kill me. We’ll never be able to prove it otherwise.’ He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I think they’ll take my word for the fact that you’re Tom Ripley.’

 

‘I have some papers too.’

 

‘Why didn’t you show them to the police earlier?’ he says, startled.

 

‘I had nothing to gain by it. And… I suppose I wanted to get rid of Tom. Nothing… nothing made sense without you, Peter. I didn’t care any more.’

 

‘Tom… I can’t have you thinking that way, okay? Even if… if I’m not around.’

 

‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be around?’

 

‘This isn’t over yet, Tom,’ he reminds me gently.

 

‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. I won’t allow it.’

 

‘Let’s just promise each other we’ll be very, very careful. Agreed?’

 

‘Agreed.’

 

‘Well… I suppose I may as well pay Dickie a visit.’

 

‘What -- now?’ I say in alarm.

 

He shrugs. ‘Why wait?’

 

‘I’m not letting you go alone.’

 

‘Tom -- ’

 

‘No, Peter. There’s no way you’re seeing him alone.’

 

He looks at me for a long moment. ‘Okay. But there’s no sense in letting things get volatile.’ I smile. ‘What?’ he asks.

 

‘I remember the last time you used that word. When we were being interrogated in Venice.’

 

He smiles. ‘God, that was centuries ago.’

 

‘I thought you were the most gorgeous person I’d ever seen. I hated having to tell you that I had a fiancée.’

 

He laughs. ‘I knew that wasn’t true.’

 

‘Did you?’ I whisper against his mouth, just before pressing my lips against his. He pulls away after a minute. ‘None of that,’ he admonishes me gently, giving me a last quick brush of his lips against mine. ‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘Let’s go get this over with.’

 

‘Hello, Dickie,’ Peter says quietly as we stand outside his door.

 

Dickie stares and stares. ‘Peter,’ he whispers finally. I push past him and enter his room. Marge is sitting at the table. ‘Oh my god!’ she cries out when she sees Peter. She jumps up and throws her arms around him. Peter hugs her back warmly. ‘It’s good to see you, Marge.’

 

‘Peter, I don’t believe it.’ Her eyes are shining with tears. ‘I’m fine,’ he assures her. He turns back to Dickie, his arm around her. ‘As Dickie and Tom have both discovered, I’m a hard man to kill.’

 

I know the harshness of his tone is for Dickie’s benefit, but what he says still stings terribly. Suddenly it seems as if Dickie and I are on the same side. As if reinforcing my fear, Dickie takes a step closer to me.

 

‘What do you want?’ Dickie asks warily, studying Peter’s face. Peter’s emerald eyes are inscrutable. ‘I want you to come to the police with us. Confess what you’ve done, and clear Tom’s name.’

 

‘Clear his name? What about Freddie?’ Dickie sneers.

 

‘Tom will take full responsibility for that.’

 

‘What if I don’t want to?’

 

‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. How long is this charade going to go on?’

 

‘I’m afraid I do have a choice, Peter.’ I blink. In a flash, Dickie has withdrawn a hideous weapon from his pocket -- a Colt, which is pointed straight at Peter’s heart.

 

‘Dickie,’ Marge moans. ‘Put that away. Please.’

 

‘Not likely, hon. These two have given me enough trouble. Get one of my ties from the drawer, there’s a good girl.’ Marge bites her lip, but obeys.

 

‘Give it to Tom. Tom, I’d like you to bind Peter’s hands behind him with that. Very tightly, if you please.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Tom.’ Peter’s eyes are still unreadable, his face expressionless. ‘Do as he says.’

 

‘Peter, no.’

 

‘Hurry up, Tom. It’s either that or a bullet in the chest for Peter. Your choice.’

 

I take the tie from Marge, desperately trying to read Peter’s expression, hoping he has a plan. Dickie comes to stand next to us as Peter crosses his wrists behind his back. ‘Tighter,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘Another knot. That’s perfect.’

 

He makes Peter kneel on the floor, and then has me stand with my back against the bedpost, binding my wrists behind me with another tie. I am effectively bound to the bed now.

 

‘Marge, keep an eye on him. Peter and I are going for a ride.’

 

‘Dickie, no,’ I beg. ‘Please. I’ll do anything you want. Just leave him alone.’

 

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tom. It’s too late.’

 

‘Where are you taking Peter?’ Marge asks, her eyes wide, frantic.

 

‘That’s between Peter and me. Don’t worry, hon. I’ll call you later.’

 

‘Let me talk to Tom alone,’ Peter says. Dickie laughs. ‘Very well, then. Come, Marge.’ He takes her hand and leads her out into the balcony.

 

‘Tom,’ he says gently. I look desperately into his eyes. ‘Peter, he’s going to kill you.’

 

‘Get Marge to free you. Call the police. She cares about me. She won’t want me to get hurt.’

 

‘How will we know where to find you? There has to be another way, Peter.’

 

He sighs and rests his forehead against my shoulder for a moment. ‘I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know how you’ll find me. Marge may know what he’s planning. She’s our best hope.’

 

‘Peter, I can’t stand this. I can’t stand the thought of him hurting you. And there’s nothing I can do about it.’

 

‘I’m sorry, Tom. I should have known it would come to this. In case… in case I don’t see you again… please, you must be strong. For me. Promise me that?’

 

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘No. I’m not going to lose you again. Peter…’

 

‘That’s enough,’ Dickie says from the balcony. He puts a long overcoat over Peter, hiding his bound hands. He pulls Peter away from me, pushing him towards the door. ‘Dickie, please… don’t hurt him,’ Marge whispers. Dickie winks at her and opens the door. My eyes meet Peter’s for one last moment, and then they are gone.

 

The moment the door closes, I turn my head towards Marge. ‘Marge, what’s he planning? Did he tell you?’

 

‘Tom, he said you killed Freddie. He said you attacked him.’

 

‘I did. Marge, he tried to kill Peter. He’s going to do it again. Please, you must help Peter.’

 

Marge is almost crying. ‘I don’t know. Peter… Peter’s the best friend I ever had. But I… I can’t live without Dickie, Tom. They’ll take him away.’

 

‘He hasn’t killed anyone, Marge. I have. And I… I’ll take the fall for him. I’ll say I tried to kill Peter. Anything. I’ll make sure Dickie isn’t arrested. Just help Peter. Please.’

 

‘You’ll take the fall? You promise?’

 

‘You have my word. I’ll do it for Peter. You know I will.’

 

She nods and unties me from the bedpost. ‘Where are they headed?’

 

‘Ten miles out. There’s an abandoned warehouse near the coast, just outside city limits.’

 

‘Okay. I’m going after them. Can you get the police and meet me there?’

 

‘Yes. I’ll go right away. But Tom -- you must keep your word.’ Her eyes are desperate, pleading.

 

‘I will, Marge.’

5.

The warehouse is dark and unwelcoming, almost falling apart. I see a car parked outside as my rental car screeches to a halt outside. Throughout the drive my head has been filled with images of what Peter may be going through. I push my thoughts aside and run into the warehouse. Dickie is standing there, the Colt in his hand.

 

‘Where is he?’ I step into his path.

 

Dickie gestures behind him. I look over his shoulder and suck my breath in. The floor is unfinished, leading to a steep gorge that falls away into nothing. Peter is standing at the edge, his hands still tied behind him.

 

‘You’re just in time for the finale,’ Dickie says casually. ‘Peter was just trying to decide if he’d rather jump or get shot.’

 

‘You okay, Peter?’ I call out. Peter nods. ‘Stay away from him, Tom.’

 

‘So, Peter, which is it going to be? I don’t have all day.’

 

‘Dickie, I’m willing to tell the police I’m responsible for everything. That I tried to kill Peter.’

 

Dickie raises his eyebrows at me. ‘And why would you do that?’

 

‘In exchange for his life. Please.’

 

‘Tom, no,’ Peter says quietly. I ignore him. ‘What do you say, Dickie?’

 

‘Tell you what. I’ll give you something better. The chance to tell the police you did kill him.’

 

Before I can move, he has squeezed the trigger.

 

‘No!’ I scream, but it is too late. The bullet hits Peter and he falls back, disappearing into the gorge.

 

I throw myself at Dickie, wrestling the gun from his hands. I want to blow his brains out, but I settle for hitting him over the head with the butt of the pistol, hard. He falls and doesn’t get up.

 

I throw the gun away and run to the edge of the chasm. ‘Peter!’ I scream. Then I see him. He is lying on a narrow ledge several feet below, face down, a dark stain spreading beneath him.

 

I cannot think. All I know is that I need to reach him, need to help him. I begin the difficult descent, clinging to the rock face, keeping my eyes on him.

 

I reach Peter and turn him over. His eyes are closed, his clothes wet with blood. My shaking hands find a pulse in his throat. I pull off his sweater and shirt, using the shirt as padding against the wound, binding my own shirt around his chest to keep the bandage in place. I hold him in my arms, trying to stop shaking. He’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. We’ll get through this. He’s strong. He’ll survive. I won’t let him die.

 

‘Tom,’ Peter whispers, his eyes closed, his head moving slightly.

 

‘Peter.’ I have to fight to keep the tears out of my voice. ‘Sshh, Peter. Don’t try to move.’

 

‘You’re here… I knew...’ His voice sounds like it’s coming from very, very far away. I hold him close, my face buried in his hair. ‘Yes, Peter. I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going to let you go.’ I try to keep the terror out of my voice. He is losing so much blood that I dare not think about what will happen if I can’t get him to a hospital quickly.

 

‘Tom! Peter! Where are you?’

 

‘Marge! Marge, we’re down here!’ I cry out. I see her pale, anxious face peering over the edge of the pit. ‘Tom? Oh god -- what happened?’

 

‘Peter’s been shot. We need an ambulance.’

 

‘We’ve called for one. Dickie is hurt. Tom -- the police are here.’

 

‘I’m not leaving Peter. Marge, I’ll tell them everything, I swear. Just let us get through this first.’

 

‘Did Dickie do it? Did he hurt Peter?’

 

I nod, unable to speak now. Peter’s precious blood is draining away as he lies in my arms, and there is nothing I can do about it.

 

‘Peter.’ I shake him gently. ‘Peter, try to stay awake. Talk to me. Please.’ He is quiet, too quiet. ‘Peter, please.’ My tears are falling on his face now, wetting his hair. He doesn’t move. He is barely breathing. I know he is beyond feeling my arms around him, feeling my desperate attempts to keep him alive. I press a hand against the makeshift bandage, trying to slow the loss of blood, holding him, waiting.

 

‘Tom?’ Marge’s voice sounds like a scream, even though she is barely audible. I start violently, and she puts a hand on my arm to steady me. ‘It’s okay. I just thought I’d check on you.’

 

‘Peter -- is he -- ?’

 

‘Still unconscious.’ She sits down next to me in the hospital corridor. It’s four in the morning, and no one else is in sight.

 

‘I thought you went with the police.’

 

‘I did. Dickie… gave them the slip. He’s missing.’

 

‘What? He could come back. I must check on Peter.’

 

‘Sit, Tom,’ she says wearily. ‘There’s a police guard at Peter’s room.’

 

I still need to check for myself. The guard outside Peter’s room stops me. ‘Sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you go in.’

 

‘It’s okay,’ Marge says from behind me. ‘He’s a friend.’

 

The guard looks at me doubtfully. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ I look down at myself. I am covered in Peter’s blood. I push my way past the guard.

 

Peter is lying very still, an oxygen mask over his face, tubes and needles running into him. I cannot bear to see him like this, and I cannot bear to look away.

 

‘Tom?’ Marge says very quietly from behind me. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. Come on.’ She tugs at my hand, and I tear my eyes away from Peter and follow her outside.

 

‘You should get cleaned up,’ she suggests gently as I sink back into my seat in the corridor outside Peter’s room. I shake my head wearily. The last thing I want to do is remove the clothes which have his blood on them.

 

‘Tom… there’s something you should know. The police -- ’

 

‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow, Marge. I’ll keep my word, don’t worry.’

 

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t think you’ll have to.’ I look at her, too tired to speak.

 

‘Dickie’s running away has convinced them he’s guilty of everything. They’ll only want you as a witness. Nothing more.’

 

‘I thought you… you wanted me to…’

 

‘No, Tom. Let things be. I… what Dickie did to Peter was unforgivable. I never want to see him again.’

 

‘I’m sorry, Marge.’

 

‘Don’t be. I’ve seen what Peter means to you. You both deserve to be happy.’

 

‘I can’t… I can’t bear to think of it. I can’t remember what happiness feels like. If he… if he doesn’t wake up…’

 

‘Oh, Tom.’ She puts her arm around my shoulders. I savagely wipe the tears away from my eyes.

 

‘I don’t suppose I can convince you to try and get some sleep?’

 

‘I’m staying here. Go back to the hotel, Marge. I’ll call you if… I’ll call you in the morning.’

 

I go back to Peter’s room. This time, the guard doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t say anything. But he gets up and opens the door for me. I shut it quietly behind me and sit down in a chair beside Peter’s bed. He looks terribly fragile. I put my hand on his and close my eyes.

 

A couple of hours later, I am awakened by the door opening. It is a doctor. She says nothing at first, but spends several minutes examining Peter.

 

‘Doctor?’ I whisper finally. ‘Is he… is he going to be all right?’

 

She finally looks at me. ‘Mr -- ?’

 

‘Ripley. Tom Ripley.’

 

‘I won’t pretend that this young man is not grievously hurt, Mr Ripley. But he’s young and strong and healthy, and I have hope that he will recover.’

 

I nod. ‘Thank you, doctor.’

 

‘Ada Greene. What does your friend do?’

 

‘Peter’s a musician,’ I whisper. She rests her hand on Peter’s head for a moment. ‘I’ll be back to check on him later, Tom.’

 

‘Thank you, doctor.’

 

‘You may want to call someone, Tom,’ she suggests quietly. ‘Driving yourself to exhaustion won’t help Peter.’

 

Thirty minutes later I am waiting in the corridor. Anna comes out of Peter’s room, looking devastated.

 

‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I choke. ‘I… I couldn’t…’

 

She silently puts her arms around me. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Tom,’ she says softly, holding me. I am beyond words, beyond telling anyone that everything was my fault.

 

‘Will you go home?’ Anna asks.

 

‘I’ll do anything you say, Anna, but not that. Please. I… I can’t leave him. I won’t.’

 

She sighs. ‘I know. I can’t ask you to. But I’m staying too. Will you at least lie down on that bench over there? I’ll sit with Peter for a while. I won’t take my eyes off him. I promise.’

 

I nod silently and take her advice.

 

It is two days before there is a change in Peter’s condition, two days during which I sleep in snatches on the bench outside Peter’s room and in the chair beside his bed, wearing the same clothes I had been in on the night he was shot. Ada will not let me play music to him, but she allows me to read to him from his favourite books: Hugo, Novalis, Keats, Tagore.

 

I am sitting beside him, my eyes closed, when I feel his hand stir under mine. I lean close to him as his eyelids flutter. He looks at me, his eyes unfocused. I can say nothing, cannot stop the tears from running silently down my face. His lips move slightly, but he cannot speak because of the mask on his face. He lifts his hand to his face and takes off the mask.

 

‘Peter, don’t,’ I begin to say, alarmed. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, his voice very hoarse. ‘I can breathe on my own.’

 

‘Oh, god. Thank god.’ I bury my face in my hands, unable to keep the tears back. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and pulls me close to him, resting my head against his shoulder. I put my arm around his waist, and we stay like that for several minutes. Finally, I lift my head and press my lips to his forehead.

 

‘What day is it?’ he asks.

 

‘Friday. You’ve been unconscious almost three days.’

 

He groans. ‘Everything hurts,’ he complains, but his tone is light.

 

‘You need painkillers. I’ll get the doctor.’

 

‘Too late, she’s already here,’ Ada says from the doorway. She smiles at Peter. ‘Hello, Peter. I’m Ada.’

 

‘Hi,’ he says softly.

 

‘I’m just going to check on you, okay?’ She doesn’t ask me to leave or let go of Peter’s hand. I’m not sure I could release his hand if my life depended on it.

 

‘Well,’ she says finally, smiling down at Peter. ‘You’re a very fortunate young man. Looks like you’re going to be fine. You had your friends very worried.’ She smiles at me.

 

‘I seem to be doing that a lot lately,’ Peter says ruefully, squeezing my hand. Ada laughs and rests her hand briefly on top of his head. ‘Get lots of rest, Peter. And Tom, see that he does. I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing.’

 

‘Help me sit up?’ Peter smiles when Ada has left. I put my arm around him and prop him up a little, putting two pillows behind his back to support him. He suddenly looks at me in alarm. ‘Tom, your clothes -- are you okay?’

 

‘Yes. It’s your blood.’

 

His forehead creases in concern. ‘You never left the hospital, did you?’ I shake my head, not knowing what to say.

 

‘You’re going to. Now. I thought I told you to take care of yourself.’

 

‘Don’t make me leave you,’ I plead.

 

He sighs. ‘I can’t make you leave. I don’t want you to leave.’

 

‘That’s more like it,’ I smile, gently brushing his tousled hair away from his forehead. Then I remember. ‘Anna! I must call her. And Marge.’

 

‘I’m not awake two minutes, and you want to run away to talk to beautiful women,’ he teases gently. I hug him tightly, laughing. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

 

When I get back, a nurse is fiddling with Peter’s tubes, injecting something into his intravenous drip. Seeing the look on my face, she says quickly, ‘I’m just giving him some painkillers that Dr Greene prescribed. They may make him drowsy.’

 

After she leaves, I sit at the edge of Peter’s bed. ‘Try and sleep, Peter.’ I run my fingers over his cheek, his lips. He kisses my fingertips lightly. ‘Why does everyone want me to go to sleep again?’ he complains.

 

I laugh and kiss his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you on your feet again, and then I promise I’ll keep you up all night.’

 

‘I like the sound of that,’ he grins. Then his eyes catch mine, holding my gaze. ‘The last couple of days… must have been very difficult.’

 

‘They were.’ I cannot look away from his eyes, and I know he is seeing in mine what I felt.

 

‘Tom… I promised I wouldn’t leave you.’

 

‘I know. I was just… afraid. Terrified.’

 

‘I know. I won’t do that to you again. From now on, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you happy. I promise.’

 

‘Peter, I… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

 

‘I’m saying I’m not going to spend another day without you. I’m saying I want to live with you and take care of you and share everything in my life with you.’ I can only gaze at him.

 

‘If that’s what you want,’ he adds, his eyes searching my face.

 

‘Hmmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,’ I say thoughtfully. He groans. ‘Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?’ I laugh helplessly and hold him close. ‘Of course it’s what I want, you idiot. I just… I just don’t know if that’s what’s best for you.’

 

‘Tom Ripley, I forbid you to think that. Ever again. Is that understood?’

 

‘Understood,’ I whisper, pressing his hand to my lips. I hold his emerald gaze, and know that nothing will come between us again.


End file.
